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(See  page  411 
PAUL."     SHE     SAID.         YOU      ARE     VERY      HAPPY.     AREN'T     YOU?" 


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By 

N.    H 

arben 

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Abner 
"J 

Author  of 
Daniel  "  "  Pole  Baker  " 
ane  Dawson,"  etc. 

4 

New  York  and   London 
Harper   &  Brothers   Publishers 


M  C  M  X  I  I 


COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER    a    BROTHERS 

PRINTED   IN    THE   UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 

PUBLISHED    SEPTEMBER.    1912 


I  M 


TO 

THE     MEMORY     OF 
MY      LITTLE      SON 

ERIC 


2136457    ■ 


Part     I 


Paul    Rundel 


CHAPTER  I 

FROM  the  window  of  her  husband's  shop  in  the 
mountain- village  of  Grayson,  Cynthia  Tye  stood 
peering  out  on  the  Square.  She  was  tall,  gaunt, 
and  thin — so  thin,  in  fact,  that  her  fingers,  pricked 
by  her  needle  and  gnaried  at  the  joints,  had  a  hold 
in  energy  only,  as  she  pressed  them  down  on  her 
contouriess  hips.  She  had  left  her  work  in  the 
living-room  and  kitchen  back  of  the  shop  and  come 
in  to  question  the  shoemaker  as  to  what  he  wanted 
for  his  dinner,  the  boiling  and  stewing  hour  having 
arrived. 

Silas,  whose  sedentary  occupation  had  supplied 
him  with  the  surplus  flesh  his  wife  needed,  and  whose 
genial  pate  was  as  bald  as  an  egg,  save  for  a  bare 
fringe  of  gray  which  overlapped  his  ears  on  the  sides 
and  impinged  upon  his  shirt-collar  behind,  looked 
up  and  smiled  broadly. 

"I  wish  you'd  quit  that,  Cynthy.     I  really  do." 

Every  outward  and  inward  part  of  the  man  lent 

itself  to  his  smile,  the  broad,  clean-shaven  Irish  lip, 

the  big,  facile  mouth,  the  almost  wrinkleless  pink 

cheeks,  the  clear,  twinkling  blue  eyes,  the  besmirched 


Paul     Rundel 

goatee — in  fact,  all  his  rotund,  satisfied  self  between 
his  chin  and  the  bench  on  which  he  sat  shook  like  a 
mass  of  animated  jelly. 

"Quit  what?"     She  turned  on  him  suddenly. 

"Why,  quit  always  and  eternally  comin'  to  me 
when  I'm  chock  full  o'  breakfast,  and  askin'  me  what 
I  want  to  eat  for  dinner.  I  can  still  taste  my  coffee. 
I  reckon  settin'  humped  over  this  way  between  meals 
ain't  exactly  accordin'  to  nature  in  its  best  state. 
I'd  ruther  live  in  a  boardin'-house  and  take  what 
was  served,  hit  or  miss,  than  to  digest  a  meal  in  my 
mind  three  hours  before  I  eat  it." 

"Huh!  I  say!"  Cynthia  sniffed,  "and  what  about 
me,  who  not  only  has  to  think  about  it  beforehand, 
but  has  to  pick  it  in  the  garden,  git  it  ready  for  the 
pots,  smell  the  fumes  of  it  from  dayHght  till  dark, 
and  worry  all  night  for  fear  something,  will  sour  or 
be  ate  up  by  the  cat,  dog,  or  chickens?" 

Silas  laughed  till  his  tools — last,  hammer,  and 
knife — rattled  in  his  leather  apron,  "You  got  the 
best  o'  that  argument,"  he  chuckled,  as  he  pressed  the 
shoe  he  was  repairing  down  between  his  fat  knees, 
crossed  his  short  feet,  and  reached  for  a  box  of 
nails  which  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  Then  his  mer- 
riment ceased.  He  bent  a  tender  glance  on  the 
woman  and  a  gentle  cadence  crept  into  his  voice: 
"The  Lord  knows  you  do  have  a  hard  time,  Cynthy, 
an'  no  jokin'.  I  wish  thar  was  some  way  around  it. 
I  lie  awake  many  and  many  a  night  just  thinkin'  how 
happy  me'n  you'd  be  if  we  could  take  a  trip  off 
some'rs  and  not  have  nothin'  to  bother  about  for  one 
week  anyway.  What  are  you  gazin'  at  out  thar  so 
steady?" 

"I'm    watchin'    that   pore   boy,    Paul    Rundel," 

2 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

Cynthia  returned,  with  a  sigh.  "I  never  see  'im 
without  my  heart  achin'.  He's  hauHn'  bark  for 
Jim  Hoag's  tannery.  He  driv'  up  on  a  big  load  to 
the  post-office  while  I  was  out  gatherin'  beans  just 
now.  You  remember  them  two  devilish  Harris  boys 
that  picked  the  row  with  'im  at  the  hitchin'-rack 
last  week?  Well,  I  saw  'em  at  the  comer  and 
thought  they  looked  suspicious.  Then  I  knowed 
they  was  waitin'  for  'im,  for  they  nudged  one 
another  and  picked  up  brickbats,  and  went  to  Paul's 
wagon.  I  couldn't  hear  what  was  said,  but  it  looked 
like  they  was  darin'  Paul  to  git  down,  for  they  kept 
swingin'  their  bricks  and  shakin'  their  fists  at  'im." 

"What  a  pity,  what  a  pity!"  The  shoemaker 
sighed.  "That  boy  is  tryin'  his  level  best  to  live 
right,  and  thar  was  two  ag'in'  one,  and  both  bigger 
and  stronger." 

"Well,  Paul  kin  take  care  of  hisself,"  Cynthia  said, 
with  a  chuckle.  "It  looked  like  he  was  in  for 
serious  trouble,  and  I  was  runnin'  to  the  fence  to 
try  to  call  somebody  to  help  him,  when,  lo  and 
behold!  I  saw  him  reach  back  on  the  load  o'  bark 
and  pick  up  a  double-barreled  gun  and  stick  the 
butt  of  it  to  his  shoulder.  I  am  a  Christian  woman, 
and  I  don't  believe  in  bloodshed,  but  when  them 
scamps  drapped  the'r  bricks  and  broke  for  the  black- 
smith shop  like  dogs  with  their  tails  twixt  their  legs 
I  shouted  and  laughed  till  I  cried.  Paul  got  down 
and  was  makin'  for  the  shop,  when  the  marshal — 
Budd  Tibbs — stopped  'im  and  made  'im  put  up  the 
gun  and  go  back  to  his  wagon.  The  next  minute 
I  saw  the  Harris  boys  slip  out  the  back  door  of  the 
shop  and  slink  off  out  o'  sight." 

"It's   bad,   bad,   bad!"   Silas   deplored.     "Some- 

3 


Paul    Rundel 

times  I  wonder  why  the  Lord  lets  things  run  slip- 
shod like  that.  Paul  has  a  bright  mind.  He  is  as 
sharp  as  a  brier.  He  loves  to  read  about  what's 
goin'  on  over  the  world.  If  thar  ever  was  a  boy 
that  needed  good  advice  and  trainin'  he  is  one.  He's 
right  at  the  turnin'-point,  too;  he's  got  a  high  tem- 
per, a  lot  o'  sperit,  and  won't  stand  naggin'  from 
high  or  low.  And  what's  he  got  at  home?  Nothin' 
that  wouldn't  take  life  and  hope  out  of  any  ambitious 
boy — a  daddy  that  is  half  dead,  and  won't  work  a 
lick—" 

"And  a  mammy,"  Cynthia  broke  in,  with  indigna- 
tion, "Si,  that  is  the  vainest,  silliest  woman  that 
ever  breathed,  traipsin'  out  to  meetin'  in  her  flimsy 
finery  bought  by  that  boy's  hard  work.  They  say, 
because  she's  passably  good-lookin'  and  can  sing 
well,  that  she  thinks  herself  too  good  to  lay  her  hands 
to  a  thing.  She  don't  love  Ralph  Rundel,  nor  never 
did,  or  she  couldn't  act  that  way  when  he  is  sick. 
I've  heard,  on  good  authority,  that  she  never  cared 
much  for  Paul,  even  when  he  was  a  baby^ — folks  say 
she  didn't  want  'im  to  come  when  he  did,  and  she 
never  took  care  of  'im  like  a  mother  ought  to." 

"I've  watched  Paul  a  long  time,"  Silas  remarked. 
"Me'n  him  are  purty  good  friends.  He's  rough  on 
the  outside,  but  now  and  then  I  see  away  down  into 
his  heart.  He  worries  about  his  daddy's  bad  health 
constantly.  They  are  more  like  two  brothers  than 
father  and  son,  anyway,  and  as  Ralph  grows  weaker 
he  leans  more  and  more  on  his  boy.  It  certainly  is 
sad.  I  saw  'em  both  down  at  Hoag's  cotton-gin 
last  fall.  Paul  had  run  across  some  second-hand 
school-books  somewhar,  and  was  tryin'  to  explain  'em 
to  his  pa,  but  he  couldn't  make  any  impression  on 

4 


Paul    Run  del 

him.  Ralph  looked  like  he  was  tryin'  to  show- 
interest,  but  it  wasn't  in  'im.  I  tell  you,  Cynthy, 
the  hardest  job  our  Creator  ever  put  on  his  creatures 
is  for  'em  to  have  unbounded  faith  in  the  perfection 
in  the  unseen  when  thar  is  so  much  out  o'  joint 
alwa3^s  before  our  eyes." 

"Yes,  but  you  never  lose  faith,"  Cynthia  said, 
proudly.  "I'd  have  let  loose  long  ago  if  I  hadn't 
had  you  to  keep  me  agoin'." 

"You  see,  Cynthy,  I've  noticed  that  something 
bright  always  follows  on  the  heels  of  what  is  dark." 
Silas  hammered  the  words  in  with  the  tacks,  which  he 
held  in  his  mouth.  "Peace  hovers  over  war  and 
drops  down  after  it  like  rain  on  dry  soil;  joy  seems 
to  pursue  sorrow  like  sunshine  pushin'  clouds  away, 
and,  above  all,  love  conquers  hate,  and  you  know  our 
Lord  laid  particular  stress  on  that." 

"Paul  has  just  left  the  post-office,"  Cynthia  said. 
"He's  left  his  hosses  standin'  and  is  headed  this 
way." 

"He's  comin*  after  his  daddy's  shoes,"  Silas  re- 
plied. "I've  had  'em  ready  for  a  week.  I  took 
'em  out  to  his  wagon  one  day,  but  he  didn't  have 
the  money,  and  although  I  offered  to  credit  him  he 
wouldn't  hear  to  it.  He's  as  independent  as  a  hog 
on  ice.     I  tell  you  thar's  lots  in  that  boy." 

Cynthia,  as  the  youth  was  crossing  the  street, 
turned  back  into  her  kitchen.  A  moment  later  Paul 
entered  the  shop.  He  was  thin  almost  to  emacia- 
tion, just  merging  into  the  quickly  acquired  height 
of  a  boy  of  sixteen,  and  had  the  sallow  complexion 
that  belongs  to  the  ill-nourished  mountaineers  of  the 
South.  His  coarse  brown  hair  fought  against  the 
restrictions  of   the   torn   straw  hat,  which,  Hke   a 

5 


Paul     R  u  11  d  e  1 

miniature  tent,  rested  on  the  back  part  of  his  head. 
The  legs  of  his  trousers  were  frayed  at  the  bottoms 
and  so  crudely  patched  at  the  knees  that  the  vari- 
colored stitches  were  observable  across  the  room.  He 
wore  no  coat,  and  his  threadbare  shirt  of  heavy, 
checked  cotton  had  lost  its  buttons  at  the  sleeves  and 
neck.  He  had  a  finely  shaped  head,  a  strong  chin,  and 
a  good  nose.  A  pair  of  dreamy  brown  eyes  in  somber 
sockets  were  still  ablaze  from  their  recently  kindled 
fires.  His  mouth  was  large  and  somehow,  even  in 
the  grasp  of  anger,  suggested  the  capacity  for  ten- 
derness and  ideality. 

"Hello,  young  man!"  Silas  greeted  him  as  he 
peered  at  the  boy  above  his  brass-rimmed  spectacles 
and  smiled  genially.  "Here  at  last.  I  was  afraid 
you'd  let  them  shoes  take  the  dry-rot  in  my  shop, 
and  just  because  you  wouldn't  owe  me  a  few  cents 
for  a  day  or  two." 

Paul  made  no  reply.  His  restless  glance  roved 
sullenly  over  the  heap  of  mended  shoes  and  boots 
on  the  floor,  and,  selecting  the  pair  he  was  looking 
for,  he  ran  a  quivering  finger  along  the  freshly 
polished  edge  of  the  soles  and  bent  the  leather 
testingly. 

"Some  o'  the  white  oak  you  helped  tan  out  thar 
at  Hoag's,"  Silas  jested.  "If  it  ain't  the  best  the 
brand  on  it  is  a  liar,  and  I  have  been  buncoed  by 
your  rich  boss." 

This  also  evoked  no  response.  Thrusting  the 
shoes  under  his  arm,  the  boy  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  drew  out  some  small  coins  and  counted 
them  on  the  low  window-sill  close  to  the  shoemaker. 
He  was  turning  away  when  Silas  stopped  him. 
Pointing  to  a  chair  bottomed  with  splints  of  white 

6 


Paul     R  11  n  d  e  1 

oak  and  strengthened  by  strips  of  leather  interlaced 
and  tacked  to  the  posts  he  said : 

"Take  that  seat;  I  hain't  seed  you  in  a  coon's 
age,  Paul,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

With  a  slightly  softened  expression,  the  boy 
glanced  through  the  open  doorway  out  into  the 
beating  sunshine  toward  his  horses  and  wagon. 

"I've  got  to  move  on."  He  drew  his  tattered 
sleeve  across  his  damp  brow  and  looked  at  the  floor. 
"I  got  another  load  to  bring  down  from  the  moun- 
tain." 

Silas  peered  through  the  window  at  the  horses  and 
nodded  slowly.  "Them  pore  pantin'  brutes  need  the 
♦  rest  they  are  gettin'  right  now.  Set  down!  set 
down!     You  don't  have  to  hurry." 

Reluctantly  the  youth  complied,  holding  the  shoes 
in  his  lap.  Silas  hammered  diligently  for  a  moment, 
and  then  the  furrows  on  his  kindly  brow  deepened  as 
he  stared  steadily  through  his  glasses,  which  were 
seldom  free  from  splotches  of  lampblack  and  bees- 
wax. 

"I  wonder,  Paul,  if  you'd  git  mad  if  I  was  to  tell 
you  that  I've  always  had  a  whoppin'  big  interest  in 


you 


The  boy  made  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  seemed  to 
have  no  command  of  tact  or  diplomacy.  He  flushed 
faintly;  his  lashes  flickered;  he  fumbled  the  shoes 
in  his  lap,  but  no  words  were  forthcoming.  How- 
ever, to  Silas  this  was  answer  enough,  and  he  was 
encouraged  to  go  on. 

"You  see,  Paul,  I've  knowed  you  since  you  was  so 
high" — Silas  held  his  hammer  out  on  a  level  with 
his  knee — "and  I  have  watched  you  close  ever  since. 
Yore  daddy — that  was  in  his  palmy  days — used  to 

7 


Paul     Rundel 

take  you  with  'im  when  he'd  go  afishin',  and  I  used 
to  meet  you  an'  him  on  the  creek-bank.  You  was  as 
plump  and  pink  a  toddler  as  I  ever  laid  eyes  on,  just 
the  age  of  the  only  one  the  Lord  ever  sent  us.  When 
mine  was  alive  I  was  so  full  of  the  joy  of  it  that  I 
just  naturally  wanted  to  grab  up  every  baby  I  met 
and  hug  it.  I  never  could  hear  a  child  cry  over  a 
stubbed  toe,  a  stone-bruise,  or  any  little  disappoint- 
ment without  actually  achin'  at  the  heart.  But  our 
son  was  taken,  Paul,  taken  right  when  he  was  the 
very  light  an'  music  of  our  lives.  And,  my  boy,  let 
me  tell  you,  if  ever  a  Christian  come  nigh  wagin'  open 
war  with  his  Maker  I  did  on  that  day.  God  looked 
to  me  like  a  fiend  incarnate,  and  His  whole  universe, 
from  top  to  bottom,  seemed  a  trap  to  catch  an' 
torture  folks  in.  But  as  time  passed  somehow  my 
pain  growed  less,  until  now  I  am  plumb  resigned  to 
the  Lord's  will.  He  knowed  best.  Yes,  as  I  say, 
I  always  felt  a  big  interest  in  you,  and  have  prayed 
for  you  time  after  time,  for  I  know  your  life  is  a 
tough  uphill  one.  Paul,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me, 
but  a  thing  took  place  out  thar  in  front  of  my  window 
just  now  that — " 

A  grunt  of  somnolent  rage  escaped  the  boy,  and 
Silas  saw  him  clench  his  fist.  His  voice  quivered 
with  passion:  "Them  two  devils  have  been  picking 
at  me  for  more  than  a  year,  calling  me  names  and 
throwing  rocks  at  me  from  behind  fences.  Yester- 
day they  made  fun  of  my  father,  and  so  I  got  ready, 
and—" 

"I  know,  I  know!" — the  shoemaker  sighed,  re- 
proachfully— "and  so  you  deliberately,  an'  in  a  calm 
moment,  laid  that  gun  on  yore  load  of  bark,  and — " 

"Yes,  and  both  barrels  was  loaded  with  heavy 

8 


Paul     Rundel 

buck-shot!"  the  boy  exulted,  his  tense  face  afire,  his 
eyes  flashing,  "and  if  they  hadn't  run  Hke  two  cow- 
ardly pups  I'd  have  blowed  holes  in  'em  as  big  as  a 
hat." 

Silas  made  a  derogatory  sound  with  his  tongue  and 
lips.  "Oh,  how  bHnd  you  was,  my  pore  boy — you 
was  too  mad  to  see  ahead ;  folk  always  are  when  they 
are  wrought  up.  Paul,  stop  for  one  minute  and 
think.  If  you  had  killed  one  or  both  of  'em,  that 
wouldn't  have  settled  the  trouble.  You  don't  think 
so  now,  but  you'd  have  gone  through  bottomless 
pits  of  remorse.  The  Lord  has  made  it  that  way. 
Young  as  you  are,  you'd  have  died  on  the  scaffold, 
or  toiled  through  life  as  a  convict,  for  it  would  have 
been  murder,  and  deliberate  at  that." 

The  youth  shrugged  his  thin  shoulders.  "I 
wouldn't  have  cared,"  he  answered.  "I  teU  you  it 
ain't  ended.  Uncle  Si.  Them  fellows  has  got  to 
take  back  what  they  said  about  my  father.  They've 
got  to  take  it  back,  I  tell  you!  If  they  don't,  I'll 
kill  'em  if  it  takes  a  lifetime  to  do  it.     I '11  kill  'em !' ' 

Silas  groaned.  A  pained  look  of  concern  gathered 
in  his  mild  eyes.  He  reached  for  the  polishing-iron 
which  was  being  heated  in  the  flame  of  a  smoking 
lamp  on  his  bench  and  wiped  it  on  his  dingy  apron. 
"It  won't  do!"  he  cried,  and  his  bald  head  seemed 
drawn  down  by  fear  and  anxiety.  "Something  has 
got  to  be  done;  they  are  a  pair  of  low,  cowardly 
whelps  that  are  tryin'  to  bully  you,  but  you've  got 
to  quit  thinkin'  about  murder.  It  won't  do,  I  say; 
the  devil  is  behind  it.  You  stand  away  above 
fellows  like  them.  You've  got  the  makin'  of  a  big 
man  in  you.  You  love  to  read  and  inquire,  and  they 
don't  know  their  a  b  c's  and  can't  add  two  figures. 

9  9 


Paul     Rundel 

You  mustn't  lower  yourself  to  such  riffraff,  and  you 
wouldn't  if  you  didn't  let  the  worst  part  o'  yourself 
get  the  upper  hand." 

When  the  boy  had  left  the  shop  Silas  stood  watch- 
ing him  from  the  doorway.  It  was  a  pathetic  figure 
which  climbed  upon  the  load  of  bark,  and  swung  the 
long  whip  in  the  air. 

"What  a  pity!  What  a  pity!"  the  old  man  ex- 
claimed, and  he  wrimg  his  hands  beneath  his  apron; 
then  seating  himself  on  his  bench  he  reluctantly 
resumed  his  work.  "As  promising  as  he  is,  he  may 
go  clean  to  the  dogs.     Poor  boy!" 


CHAPTER   II 

JT  was  now  near  noon,  as  was  indicated  by  the 
clock  on  the  low,  dome-capped  tower  of  the  Court 
House  in  the  center  of  the  village  square.  Paul 
recognized  several  idlers  who  stood  on  a  street-cor- 
ner as  he  drove  past.  They  looked  at  him  and 
smiled  approvingly,  and  one  cried  out: 

"Bully  for  you,  Paul!  You  are  all  wool  and  a 
yard  wide." 

"And  guaranteed  not  to  tear  or  shrink!"  another 
added,  with  a  laugh  over  his  borrowed  wit;  but  the 
boy  neither  answered  nor  smiled.  A  sudden  breeze 
from  the  gray,  beetling  cliffs  of  the  near-by  mountain 
fanned  his  damp  brow,  and  he  gazed  straight  ahead 
down  the  long  road.  Hot  broodings  over  his  wrongs 
surged  within  him,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  so  com- 
pletely routed  his  enemies  failed  to  comfort  him  at 
all.  They  could  still  laugh  and  sneer  and  repeat 
behind  his  back  what  they  had  dared  to  say  to  his 
face  about  a  helpless  man  who  had  offended  no  one. 
Cowards  that  they  were,  they  would  keep  their  lies 
afloat,  and  even  add  to  them. 

His  road  took  him  past  the  lumber-yard,  saw- 
mills, brick  and  Hme  kilns,  and  through  the  sordid 
negro  quarter,  which  was  a  cluster  of  ramshackle 
shanties  made  of  unpaintcd  upright  boards  grown 
brown  and  fuzzy,  with  now  and  then  a  more  primi- 
tive log  cabin,  a  relic  of  pioneer  and  Cherokee  days. 
Vast  fields  of  fertile  lands  belonging  to  his  employer, 

II 


Paul     Rundel 

James  Hoag,  lay  on  both  sides  of  the  road  just  out- 
side the  village.  There  were  stretches  of  com, 
cotton,  and  wheat  in  the  best  state  of  cultivation, 
beyond  which,  on  a  gentle  rise,  stood  the  planter's 
large  two-story  house,  a  white  frame  structure  with 
a  double  veranda  and  outside  blinds  painted  green. 
Beyond  the  house,  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  could  be 
seen  the  dun  roofs  of  the  long  sheds  and  warehouses 
of  Hoag's  tannery,  to  which  Paul  was  taking  the 
bark.  A  big  gate  had  to  be  opened,  and  the  boy  was 
drawing  rein  with  the  intention  of  getting  down  when 
Hoag  himself,  astride  a  mettlesome  bay  mare,  passed. 

"Wait,  I'll  open  it,"  he  said,  and  spurring  his 
mount  close  to  the  gate  he  kicked  the  wooden  latch 
upward  and  swung  the  gate  aside.  "Drive  ahead" 
he  ordered.     "I  can  pull  it  to." 

Paul  obeyed,  indifferent  even  to  the  important 
man's  presence.  He  would  have  forgotten  Hoag's 
existence  had  the  mare  not  borne  him  alongside  the 
wagon  again.  The  horseman  was  a  middle-aged 
man  of  sturdy  physique,  fully  six  feet  in  height,  and 
above  two  hundred  pounds  in  weight.  His  skin  was 
florid,  his  limbs  were  strong,  firm,  and  muscular, 
his  hands  red  and  hair-grown.  There  was  a  cold, 
cruel  expression  in  the  keen  blue  eyes  under  the 
scraggy  brows,  which  was  not  softened  by  a  sweep- 
ing tobacco-stained  mustache.  He  wore  well-fitting 
top-boots  which  reached  above  the  knee,  and  into 
which  the  legs  of  his  trousers  had  been  neatly  folded. 
A  wheeled  spur  of  polished  brass  was  strapped  to 
the  heel  of  his  right  boot.  He  sat  his  horse  with 
the  ease  and  grace  of  a  cavalry  officer.  He  held 
his  mare  in  with  a  tense  hand,  and  scanned  the  load 
of  bark  with  a  critical  eye. 

12 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"How  much  more  of  that  lot  is  left  up  there?" 
he  asked. 

"About  two  cords,  or  thereabouts,"  the  boy  said, 
carelessly. 

"Well,"  Hoag  said,  "when  you  get  that  all 
stacked  under  the  shed  I  want  you  to  haul  down  the 
lot  on  Barrett's  ridge.  There  is  a  good  pile  of  it, 
and  it's  been  exposed  to  the  weather  too  long.  I 
don't  know  exactly  where  it  lies;  but  Barrett  will 
point  it  out  if  he  ain't  too  lazy  to  walk  up  to  it." 

"I  know  where  it  is,"  Paul  informed  him.  "I 
helped  strip  it." 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right.  You  might  put  on 
higher  standards  and  rope  'em  together  at  the  top. 
That  dry  stuff  ain't  very  heavy,  and  it  is  down  grade." 

He  showed  no  inclination  to  ride  on,  continuing 
to  check  his  mare.  Presently  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
stock  of  the  gun  which  was  half  hidden  by  the  bark, 
and  his  lips  curled  in  a  cold  smile  of  amusement. 

"Say,"  he  said,  with  a  low  laugh,  "do  you  go 
loaded  for  bear  like  this  all  the  time?" 

A  slow  flush  of  resentment  rose  into  the  boy's  face. 
He  stared  straight  at  Hoag,  muttered  something  in- 
articulately and  then,  with  a  distinct  scowl,  looked 
away. 

The  man's  careless  smile  deepened;  the  boy's  man- 
ner and  tone  were  too  characteristic  and  genuine, 
and  furnished  too  substantial  a  proof  of  a  quality 
Hoag  admired  to  have  offended  him.  Indeed,  there 
was  a  touch  of  tentative  respect  in  his  voice,  a  gleam 
of  callous  sympathy  in  his  eyes  as  he  went  on: 

"I  was  at  the  post-office  just  now.  I  saw  it  all. 
I  noticed  them  fellows  layin'  for  you  the  other  day, 
and   wondered   what   would   come  of   it.     I   don't 

13 


Paul     Rundel 

say  it  to  flatter  you,  Paul" — here  Hoag  chuckled 
aloud — "but  I  don't  believe  you  are  afraid  of  any- 
thing that  walks  the  earth.  I  reckon  it  is  natural 
for  a  man  like  me  to  sorter  love  a  fair  fight.  It  may 
be  because  you  work  for  me  and  drive  my  team; 
but  when  I  looked  out  the  post-office  window  as  I 
was  stampin'  a  letter,  and  saw  them  whelps  lyin'  in 
wait  for  you,  I  got  mad  as  hell.  I  wasn't  goin'  to 
let  'em  hurt  you,  either.  I'd  have  kicked  the  breath 
out  of  'em  at  the  last  minute,  but  somehow  I  was 
curious  to  see  what  you'd  do,  and,  by  gum!  when 
that  first  brickbat  whizzed  by  you,  and  you  lit 
down  with  your  gun  leveled,  and  they  scooted  to 
shelter  like  flyin'  squirrels,  I  laid  back  and  laughed 
till  I  was  sore.  That  was  the  best  bottle  of  medicine 
they  ever  saw,  and  they  would  have  had  a  dose  in 
a  minute.  They  slid  into  the  blacksmith's  shop  like  it 
was  a  fort  an'  shut  the  door.  I  reckin  you'd  have  shot 
through  the  planks  if  BuddTibbs  hadn't  stoppedyou." 

No  appreciation  of  these  profuse  compliments 
showed  itself  in  the  boy's  face.  It  was  rigid,  color- 
less and  sullen,  as  if  he  regarded  the  man's  observa- 
tions as  entirely  too  personal  to  be  allowed.  An 
angry  retort  trembled  on  his  lips,  and  even  this 
Hoag  seemed  to  note  and  relish.  His  smile  was 
unctuous;    he  checked  his  horse  more  firmly. 

"They  won't  bother  you  no  more,"  he  said,  more 
seductively.  "Such  skunks  never  run  ag'in'  your 
sort  after  they  once  see  the  stuff  you  are  made  of. 
That  gun  and  the  way  you  handled  it  was  an  eye- 
opener.  Paul,  you  are  a  born  fightin'  man,  and  yore 
sort  are  rare  these  days.  You'll  make  yore  way  in 
the  world.  Bein'  afraid  of  man  or  beast  will  stunt 
anybody's  growth.     Pay  back  in  the  coin  you  re- 

14 


Paul     Rundel 

ceive,  and  don't  put  up  with  insult  or  abuse  from 
anybody.  Maybe  you  don't  know  why  I  first  took 
a  sorter  likin'  to  you.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  tell  you 
if  I  didn't  know  that  you  was  jest  a  boy  at  the 
time,  and  I  couldn't  afford  to  resent  what  you  said. 
You  was  a  foot  shorter  than  you  are  now,  and  not 
half  as  heavy.  You  remember  the  day  yore  pa's 
shoats  broke  through  the  fence  into  my  potato  field  ? 
You  was  out  in  the  wet  weeds  tryin'  to  drive  'em 
home.  I'd  had  a  drink  or  two  more  than  I  could 
tote,  and  several  things  had  gone  crooked  with  me, 
and  I  was  out  o'  sorts.  I  saw  you  down  there,  and 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  give  you  a  thrashin' " — 
Hoag  was  smiling  indulgently — "and  on  my  way 
through  the  thicket  I  cut  me  a  stout  hickory  withe 
as  big  at  the  butt  as  my  thumb,  and  taperin'  off  like 
a  whip  at  the  end.  You  remember  how  I  cussed 
and  ripped  and  went  on?" 

"You  bet  I  remember,"  Paul  growled,  and  his 
eyes  flashed,  "and  if  you'd  hit  me  once  it  would 
have  been  the  worst  day's  work  you  ever  did." 

The  planter  blinked  in  mild  surprise,  and  there 
was  just  a  hint  of  chagrin  in  his  tone.  "Well,  I 
didn't  touch  you.  Of  course  I  wasn't  afraid  of  you 
or  the  rock  you  picked  up.  I've  never  seen  the 
man  I  was  afraid  of,  much  less  a  boy  as  little  as  you 
was;  but  as  you  stood  there,  threatenin'  to  throw, 
I  admit  I  admired  your  grit.  The  truth  is,  I  didn't 
have  the  heart,  even  drunk  as  I  was,  to  lick  you. 
Most  boys  of  your  size  would  have  broke  and  run. 
My  boy,  Henry,  would,  I  know." 

"He'll  fight  all  right,"  Paul  said.  "He's  no  cow- 
ard. I  like  him.  He's  been  a  friend  to  me  several 
times.     He  is  not  as  bad  as  some  folks  think.     He 

IS 


Paul     Rundel 

drinks  a  little,  and  spends  money  free,  and  has  a 
good  time;  but  he's  not  stuck  up.  He  doesn't  like 
to  work,  and  I  don't  blame  him.  I  wouldn't,  in  his 
place.     Huh!   you  bet  I  wouldn't." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  put  'im  between  the  plow- 
handles  before  long,"  the  planter  said,  with  a  frown. 
"He's  gettin'  too  big  for  his  britches.  Say,  you'll 
think  I'm  a  friend  worth  havin'  some  time.  Just 
after  that  thing  happened  at  the  post-office,  and  you'd 
gone  into  Tye's  shop,  Budd  Tibbs  turned  to  me  and 
said  he  believed  it  was  his  duty  as  marshal  to  make 
a  council  case  against  you  for  startin'  to  use  that 
gun  as  you  did.  I  saw  the  way  the  land  lay  in  a 
minute.  Them  skunks  are  akin  to  his  wife,  and  he 
was  mad.  I  told  him,  I  did,  that  he  might  summon 
me  as  a  witness;,  and  that  I'd  swear  you  acted  in 
self-defense,  and  prefer  counter-charges  against  the 
dirty  whelps.  Huh,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him 
wilt!  He  knows  how  many  votes  I  control,  and  he 
took  back-water  in  fine  shape." 

"I  reckon  I  can  look  after  my  own  business,"  the 
boy  made  answer,  in  a  surly  tone.  "I  ain't  afraid 
o'  no  court.    I'll  have  my  rights  if  I  die  gettin'  'em." 

Hoag  laughed  till  his  sides  shook.  "I  swear  you 
are  the  funniest  cuss  I  ever  knew.  You  ain't  one  bit 
like  a  natural  boy.  You  act  and  talk  like  a  man  that's 
been  through  the  rubs."  Hoag  suddenly  glanced 
across  a  meadow  where  some  men  were  at  work 
cutting  hay,  and  his  expression  changed  instantly. 
"I  never  told  'em  to  mow  thar,"  he  swore,  under 
his  breath.  "Take  your  bark  on.  You  know  where 
to  put  it,"  and  turning  his  horse  he  galloped  across 
the  field,  his  massive  legs  swinging  to  and  from  the 
flanks  of  his  mare. 


CHAPTER  III 

THAT  afternoon  at  dusk  Paul  drove  down  the 
mountain  with  his  last  load  of  bark  for  the  day. 
The  little-used  road  was  full  of  sharp  turns  around 
towering  cliffs  and  abrupt  declivities,  worn  into 
gullies  by  washouts,  and  obstructed  by  avalanchine 
boulders.  In  places  decayed  trees  had  fallen  across 
the  way,  and  these  the  young  wagoner  sometimes 
had  to  cut  apart  and  roll  aside.  The  high  heap  of 
bark  on  the  groaning  vehicle  swayed  like  a  top- 
heavy  load  of  hay,  and  more  than  once  Paul  had  to 
dismount  from  the  lead  horse  he  rode,  scotch  the 
wheels  with  stones,  and  readjust  the  bark,  tighten- 
ing the  ropes  which  held  the  mass  together.  At 
times  he  strode  along  by  the  horses,  holding  the 
reins  between  his  teeth,  that  his  hands  might  be 
free  to  combat  the  vines  and  bushes  through  which 
he  plunged  as  blindly  as  an  animal  chased  by  a 
hunter.  His  arms,  face,  and  ankles  were  torn  by 
thorns  and  briers,  his  ill-clad  feet  cut  to  the  bone  by 
sharp  stones.  Accidents  had  often  happened  to  him 
on  that  road.  Once  he  had  fallen  under  the  wheels, 
and  narrowly  escaped  being  crushed  to  death,  a 
perilous  thing  which  would  have  haunted  many 
a  man's  life  afterward,  but  which  Paul  forgot  in  a 
moment. 

Near  the  foot  of  the  mountain  the  road  grew  wide, 
smooth,  and  firm;  his  team  slowed  down,  and  he 
took  a  book  from  the  wagon,  reading  a  few  pages 

17 


Paul     Rundel 

as  he  walked  along.  He  was  fond  of  the  history 
of  wars  in  all  countries;  the  bloodshed  and  narrow 
escapes  of  early  pioneer  days  in  America  enthralled 
his  fancy.  He  thought  no  more  of  a  hunter's  kill- 
ing a  redskin  than  he  himself  would  have  thought 
of  shooting  a  wild  duck  with  a  rifle. 

As  he  started  down  the  last  incline  between  him 
and  Grayson  he  replaced  his  book  on  the  wagon. 
The  dusk  had  thickened  till  he  could  scarcely  see 
the  print  on  the  soiled  pages.  Below,  the  houses  of 
the  village  were  scattered,  as  by  the  hand  of  chance, 
from  north  to  south  between  gentle  hills,  beyond 
which  rose  the  rugged  mountains  now  wrapped  in 
darkness.  He  made  out  the  sides  of  the  Square  by 
the  lights  in  the  various  buildings.  There  was  the 
hotel,  with  its  posted  lamps  on  either  end  of  the 
veranda.  Directly  opposite  stood  the  post-office. 
He  could  make  no  mistake  in  locating  the  black- 
smith's shop,  for  its  forge  gave  out  intermittent, 
bellows-blown  flashes  of  deep  red.  Other  dots  of 
light  were  the  open  doors  of  stores  and  warehouses. 
Like  vanishing  stars  some  were  disappearing,  for 
it  was  closing-time,  and  the  merchants  were  going 
home  to  supper.  This  thought  gave  the  boy  pleas- 
ant visions.     He  was  hungry. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  had  unloaded  the 
wagon  at  the  tannery  and  driven  on  past  Hoag's 
pretentious  home  to  the  antiquated  cottage  in 
which  he  lived.  It  had  six  rooms,  a  sagging  roof  of 
boards  so  rotten  and  black  with  age  that  they  lost 
thickness  in  murky  streams  during  every  heavy 
rain.  There  was  a  zigzag  fence  in  front,  which  was 
ill  cared  for,  as  the  leaning  comers  and  decayed 
rails  testified,     Against  the  fence,  at  the  edge  of 

i8 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

the  road,  stood  a  crude  log  bam,  a  com-crib  made 
of  imbarked  pine  poles,  above  which  was  a  hay-loft. 
Close  about  was  a  malodorous  pig-pen,  a  cow-lot, 
a  wagon-shed,  and  a  pen-Hke  stall  for  horses. 

The  chickens  had  gone  to  roost;  the  grunting 
and  squealing  of  the  pigs  had  been  stilled  by  the 
pails  of  swill  Paul's  father,  Ralph  Rundel,  had 
emptied  into  their  dug-out  wooden  troughs.  In  the 
light  of  the  kitchen  fire,  which  shone  through  the 
open  door  and  the  glassless  windows,  Paul  saw  his 
father  in  his  favorite  place,  seated  in  a  chair  under 
an  apple-tree  at  the  side  of  the  house.  Ralph  rose 
at  the  sound  of  the  clanking  trace-chains  and  came 
to  the  gate.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  drowsily,  as  if  he 
had  just  waked  from  a  nap,  and  swung  on  the  gate 
with  both  hands. 

"No  use  puttin'  the  wagon  under  shelter,"  he 
said,  in  a  querulous  tone,  as  his  slow  eyes  scanned 
the  studded  vault  overhead.  "No  danger  o'  rain 
this  night — no  such  luck  for  crops  that  are  bumin' 
to  the  roots.  The  stalks  o'  my  upland  cotton-patch 
has  wilted  like  sorghum  cut  for  the  press.  Say, 
Paul,  did  you  fetch  me  that  tobacco?  I'm  dyin' 
for  a  smoke."  He  uttered  a  low  laugh.  "I  stole 
some  o'  yore  aunt's  snuff  and  filled  my  pipe;  but, 
by  hunkey,  I'd  miscalculated— I  sucked  the  whole 
charge  down  my  throat,  and  she  heard  me  a-coughin' 
and  caught  me  with  the  box  in  my  hand." 

Paul  thrust  his  hand  into  his  hip-pocket  and 
drew  forth  a  small  white  bag  with  a  brilliant  label 
gummed  on  it.  "Bowman  was  clean  out  o'  that  fine 
cut,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  it  into  the  extended  hand. 
"He  said  this  was  every  bit  as  good." 

"I'll  not  take  his  word  for  it  till  I've  tried  it," 

19 


Paul     Rundel 

Ralph  Rundel  answered,  as  he  untied  the  bag  and 
tested  the  mixture  between  thumb  and  forefinger. 
"Storekeepers  sell  what  they  have  in  stock,  and  kin 
make  such  fellers  as  us  take  dried  cabbage-leaves 
if  they  take  a  notion." 

Ralph  was  only  fifty  years  of  age,  and  yet  he  had 
the  manner,  decrepitude,  and  spent  utterance  of  a 
man  of  seventy.  His  scant,  iron-gray  hair  was  di- 
sheveled; his  beard,  of  the  same  grizzled  texture, 
looked  as  if  it  never  had  been  trimmed,  combed, 
or  brushed,  and  was  shortened  only  by  periodical 
breaking  at  the  ends.  Despite  his  crude  stoicism, 
his  blue  eyes,  in  their  deep  sockets,  had  a  wistful, 
yearning  look,  and  his  cheeks  were  so  hollow  that 
his  visage  reminded  one  of  a  vitalized  skull.  His 
chest,  only  half  covered  by  a  tattered,  buttonless 
shirt,  was  flat;  he  was  bent  by  rheirmatism,  which 
had  left  him  stiff,  and  his  hands  were  mere  human 
talons. 

Paul  was  busy  unhooking  the  traces  from  the 
swingletrees  and  untying  the  straps  of  the  leather  col- 
lars, when  Ralph's  voice  came  to  him  above  the 
creaking  of  the  harness  and  impatient  stamping  of 
the  hungry  horses. 

"I  noticed  you  took  yore  gun  along  this  momin'. 
Did  you  kill  me  a  bird,  or  a  bushy- tail?  Seems  like 
my  taste  for  salt  pork  is  clean  gone." 

"I  didn't  run  across  a  thing,"  Paul  answered,  as 
he  lifted  the  harness  from  the  lead  horse  and  allowed 
the  animal  to  go  unguided  to  his  stall  through  the 
gate  Ralph  held  open.  "Besides,  old  Hoag  counts 
my  loads,  and  keeps  tab  on  my  time.  I  can't 
dawdle  much  and  draw  wages  from  him." 

"Did  he  pay  you  anything  to-day?"     Ralph  was 

20 


Paul     R  u  n  d  c 1 

filling  his  pipe,  feebly  packing  the  tobacco  into  the 
bowl  with  a  shaky  forefinger. 

"He  had  no  small  change,"  Paul  answered. 
"Said  he  would  have  some  to-morrow.  You  can 
wait  till  then,  surely." 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  have  to  make  out,  I  reckon." 

At  this  juncture  a  woman  appeared  in  the  kitchen 
doorway.  She  was  a  blue-eyed,  blond-haired  crea- 
ture of  solid  build  in  a  soiled  gray  print-dress.  She 
was  Paul's  aunt,  Amanda  Wilks,  his  mother's 
sister,  a  spinster  of  middle  age  with  a  cheerful  ex- 
terior and  a  kindly  voice. 

"You'd  better  come  on  in  and  git  yore  supper, 
Paul,"  she  called  out.  "You  like  yore  mush  hot, 
and  it  can't  be  kept  that  away  after  it's  done  with- 
out bakin'  it  like  a  pone  o'  bread.  You've  got  to 
take  it  with  sour  blue-john,  too.  Yore  ma  forgot 
to  put  yesterday's  milk  in  the  spring-house,  and  the 
cow  kicked  over  to-night's  supply  just  as  I  squirted 
the  last  spoonful  in  the  bucket.  Thar  is  some  cold 
pork  and  beans.     You'll  have  to  make  out." 

"I  didn't  expect  to  get  any  thin'  t'eat!"  Paul 
fumed,  hot  with  a  healthy  boy's  disappointment, 
and  he  tossed  the  remainder  of  the  harness  on  to 
the  wagon  and  followed  the  horse  to  the  stall.  He 
was  in  the  stable  for  several  minutes.  His  father 
heard  him  muttering  inarticulately  as  he  pulled  down 
bundles  of  fodder  from  the  loft,  broke  their  bands, 
and  threw  ears  of  com  into  the  troughs.  Ralph 
sucked  his  pipe  audibly,  slouched  to  the  stable-door 
under  a  burden  of  sudden  concern,  and  looked  in 
at  his  son  between  the  two  heads  of  the  munching 
animals. 

"Come  on  in,"  he  said,  persuasively.     "I  know 


Paul     Rundel 

you  are  mad,  and  you  have  every  right  to  be  after 
yore  hard  work  from  break  o'  day  till  now;  but 
nobody  kin  depend  on  women.  Mandy's  been  mak- 
in'  yore  ma  a  hat  all  day.  Flowery  gewgaws  an' 
grub  don't  go  together." 

Paul  came  out.  "Never  mind,"  he  said.  "It 
don't  make  no  difference.     Anything  will  do." 

Father  and  son  walked  side  by  side  into  the  fire- 
lighted  kitchen.  A  clothless  table  holding  a  few 
dishes  and  pans  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
Just  outside  the  door,  on  a  little  roofless  porch,  there 
was  a  shelf  which  held  a  tin  basin,  a  cedar  pail  con- 
taining water,  and  a  gourd  dipper  with  a  long,  curved 
handle.  And  going  to  this  shelf,  Paul  filled  the  basin 
and  bathed  his  face  and  hands,  after  which  he  turned 
to  a  soiled  towel  on  a  roller  against  the  weather- 
boarding  and  wiped  himself  dry,  raking  back  his 
rebelHous  hair  with  a  bit  of  a  comb,  while  his  father 
stood  close  by  watching  him  with  the  gaze  of  an 
affectionate  dog. 

"That'll  do,  that'll  do,"  Ralph  attempted  to  jest. 
"Thar  ain't  no  company  here  for  you  to  put  on  airs 
before.     Set  down!   set  down!" 

Paul  obeyed,  and  his  father  remained  smoking  in 
the  doorvk^ay,  still  eying  him  with  attentive  con- 
sideration. Amanda  brought  from  the  fire  a  fry- 
ing-pan containing  the  hot,  bubbling  mush,  and 
pushed  an  empty  brown  bowl  and  spoon  toward 
him. 

"Help  yoreself;  thar's  the  milk  in.^1  Dan,"  she 
said.  "If  it  is  too  sour  you  might  stir  a  spoonful 
o'  'lasses  in  it.  I've  heard  folks  say  it  helps  a 
sight." 

Paul  was  still  angry,  but  he  said  nothing,  and 

22 


Paul     Rundel 

helped  himself  abundantly  to  the  mush.  However, 
he  sniffed  audibly  as  he  lifted  the  pan  and  poured 
some  of  the  thin,  bluish  fluid  into  his  bowl. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault  about  the  cow,"  Amanda  con- 
tended. "vScorchin'  weather  like  this  is  the  dickens 
on  dumb  brutes.  Sook  was  a-pawin'  an'  switchin' 
'er  tail  all  the  time  I  had  hold  of  'er  tits.  It  must 
'a'  been  a  stingin'  fly  that  got  in  a  tender  spot.  Bang, 
bang!  was  all  the  wamin'  I  had,  an'  I  found  myself 
soaked  from  head  to  foot  with  milk.  I've  heard  o' 
fine  society  folks,  queens  an'  the  like,  washin'  all 
over  in  it  to  soften  their  skins  and  limber  their 
joints;  but  I  don't  need  nothin'  o'  that  sort.  Yore 
ma's  not  back  yet.  She  went  over  to  see  about  the 
singin'-class  they  want  her  in.  She  had  on  'er  best 
duds  an'  new  hat,  and  looked  like  a  gal  o'  twenty. 
She  was  as  frisky  as  a  young  colt.  I  ironed  'er  pink 
sash,  an'  put  in  a  little  starch  to  mash  out  the 
wrinkles  and  make  it  stand  stiff-like.  They  all  say 
she's  got  the  best  alto  in  Grayson.  I  rolled  'er  hair 
up  in  papers  last  night,  an'  tuck  it  down  to-da}'. 
You  never  saw  sech  pretty  kinks  in  your  life.  Jeff 
Warren  come  to  practise  their  duet,  an'  him  and 
Addie  stood  out  in  the  yard  an'  run  the  scales  an' 
sung  several  pieces  together.  It  sounded  fine,  an' 
if  I  had  ever  had  any  use  for  'im  I'd  have  enjoyed 
it  more;  but  I  never  could  abide  'im.  He  gits  in  too 
many  fights,  and  got  gay  too  quick  after  he  buried 
his  wife.  ^X^.  was  dressed  as  fine  as  a  fiddle,  an' 
had  a  ]c  I:  or  every  minute.  Folks  say  he  never 
loved  Susie,  an'  I  reckon  they  wasn't  any  too  well 
matched.  She  never  had  a  well  day  in  'er  life,  and 
I  reckon  it  was  a  blessed  thing  she  was  took.  A 
tenor  voice  an'  a  dandy  appearance  are  pore  conso- 

23 


Paul     Rundel 

lations  to  a  dyin'  woman.  But  he  treats  women 
polite — I'll  say  that  for  'im." 

Paul  had  finished  his  mush  and  milk,  and  helped 
himself  to  the  cold  string-beans  and  fat  boiled  pork. 
His  father  had  reached  for  a  chair,  tilted  it  against 
the  door-jamb,  and  seated  himself  in  it.  He  eyed 
his  son  as  if  the  boy's  strength  and  rugged  health 
were  consoling  reminders  of  his  own  adolescence. 
Suddenly,  out  of  the  still  twiHght  which  brooded 
over  the  fields  and  meadows  and  swathed  the  moun- 
tain-tops, came  the  blending  voices  of  two  singers. 
It  was  a  familiar  hymn,  and  its  rendition  was  not 
unmelodious,  for  it  held  a  sweet,  mystic  quality  that 
vaguely  appealed. 

"That's  Jeff  an'  Addie  now!"  Amanda  eagerly 
exclaimed.  She  went  to  the  door  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  lintel.  She  sighed,  and  her  voice  became 
full  and  round.  "Ain't  that  just  too  sweet  for  any- 
thing? I  reckon  they  are  both  puffed  up  over  the 
way  folks  take  on  over  their  music.  Ever  since  they 
sang  that  duet  at  Sleepy  Hollow  camp-meetin' 
folks  hain't  talked  of  anything  else." 

Paul  sat  with  suspended  knife  and  fork  and  lis- 
tened. His  father  clutched  the  back  of  his  chair 
stiffly,  bore  it  into  the  yard,  and  eased  himself  into 
it.  Paul  watched  him  through  the  doorway,  as  he 
sat  in  the  shadows,  now  bent  over,  his  thin  body  as 
rigid  and  still  as  if  carved  from  stone.  The  singing 
grew  nearer  and  nearer.  It  seemed  to  float  on  the 
twiHght  like  a  vibrant  vapor.  The  boy  finished  his 
supper  and  went  out  into  the  yard.  His  aunt  had 
seated  herself  on  the  door-step,  still  entranced  by 
the  music.  Paul  moved  softly  across  the  grass  to 
his  father;   but  Ralph  was  unconscious  of  his  pres- 

24 


Paul     Rundel 

ence.  Paul  saw  him  take  in  a  deep,  trembling  breath, 
and  heard  him  utter  a  long,  suppressed  sigh. 

"What's  the  matter.  Pa?"  the  boy  asked,  a  touch 
of  somnolent  tenderness  in  his  tone. 

"Matter?     Me?     Why,  nothin',  nothin'!" 

Ralph  started,  lifted  his  wide-open  eyes,  in  which 
a  far-away  expression  lay. 

"What  did  you  ax  me  that  for?" 

"I  thought  you  looked  bothered,"  Paul  made 
answer,  and  he  sank  on  the  grass  at  his  father's 
feet. 

"Me?  No,  I'm  all  right."  Ralph  distinctly 
avoided  his  son's  eyes,  and  that  was  a  departure. 
He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  his  pipe  and  tobacco, 
and  finally  got  them  out,  only  to  hold  them  in  in- 
active hands. 

The  singing  was  over.  There  was  a  sound  of 
merry  laughter  beyond  the  stable  and  corn-crib, 
and  Jeff  Warren's  voice  rose  quite  audibly: 

"I  thought  I'd  split  my  sides  laughin',"  he  was 
heard  to  say,  with  a  satisfied  chuclde,  "when  Bart 
Perry  riz  an'  called  for  order  and  began  to  state 
what  the  plan  was  to  be.  He  was  electin'  hisself 
chief  leader,  an'  never  dreamt  the  slightest  opposi- 
tion; but  I'd  told  a  round  dozen  or  more  that  if  he 
led  me'n  you'd  pull  out,  an'  so  I  was  lookin'  for 
just  what  happened.  Old  Thad  Thomas  winked  at 
me  sorter  on  the  side  and  jumped  up  an'  said,  'All  in 
favor  of  electin'  Jeff  Warren  leader  make  it  known 
by  standin',  an'  every  woman  an'  man- jack  thar 
stood  up,  an'  as  Bart  already  had  the  floor,  an'  was 
ashamed  to  set  down,  he  hisself  made  it  unani- 
mous. But  Lord !  he  was  as  red  as  a  turkey-gobbler 
an'  mad  as  Tucker." 

3  25 


Paul     Rundel 

The  low  reply  of  the  woman  did  not  reach  the 
trio  in  the  yard,  and  a  moment  later  the  couple 
parted  at  the  front  gate.  Mrs.  Rimdel  came 
round  the  house  through  the  garden,  walking  hur- 
riedly and  yet  with  a  daintiness  of  step  that  gave 
a  certain  grace  to  her  movement.  She  wore  a  neat, 
cool-looking  white  muslin  dress,  was  slender,  and 
had  good,  regular  features,  light-brown  eyes,  abim- 
dant  chestnut  hair,  which  was  becomingly  arranged 
under  a  pretty  hat. 

"Supper's  over,  I  know,"  she  said,  lightly,  as  she 
paused  at  the  door-step  and  faced  her  sister.  "Well, 
they  all  just  wouldn't  break  up  earlier.  They  sang 
and  sang  till  the  last  one  was  ready  to  drop.  Singers 
is  that  a  way  when  they  haven't  been  together  in  a 
long  time.  Don't  bother  about  me.  I  ain't  a  bit 
hungry.  Mrs.  Tread  well  passed  around  some  sliced 
ham  an'  bread,  an'  we  had  all  the  buttermilk  we 
could  drink." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  Amanda  demanded,  eagerly. 
"What  was  it  Jeff  was  sayin'  about  Bart  Perry?" 

"Oh,  Bart  was  squelched  in  good  fashion."  Mrs. 
Rimdel  glanced  at  the  shadowy  shapes  of  her  hus- 
band and  son,  and  then  back  to  the  eager  face  of 
the  questioner.  "You  know  what  a  stuck-up  fool 
he  is.  He  come  there  to  run  things,  and  he  set  in  at 
it  from  the  start.  He  hushed  us  up  when  we  was 
all  havin'  a  good  time  talkin',  and  begun  a  long- 
winded  tirade  about  the  big  singin'  he'd  done  oyer 
at  Darley  when  he  was  workin'  in  the  cotton-mill. 
He  pointed  to  our  song-books,  which  have  shaped 
notes,  you  know,  and  sniffed,  and  said  they  be- 
longed to  the  backest  of  the  backwoods — said  the 
notes  looked  like  children's  toy  play-blocks,  chicken- 

26 


Paul     Rundel 

coops,  dog-houses,  an'  what  not.  He  laughed,  but 
nobody  else  did.  He  was  in  for  bumin'  the  whole 
pile  and  layin'  out  more  money  for  the  new-fangled 
sort." 

"I  always  knowed  he  was  a  fool  for  want  o' 
sense,"  Amanda  joined  in,  sympathetically.  "A 
peddler  tried  to  sell  me  a  song  once  that  he  said 
was  all  the  go  in  Atlanta;  but  when  I  saw  them 
mustard-seed  spots,  like  tadpoles  on  a  wire  fence, 
I  told  him  he  couldn't  take  me  in.  Anybody  with 
a  grain  o'  sense  knows  it's  easier  to  sing  notes  that 
you  can  tell  apart  than  them  that  look  pine  blank 
alike." 

"Some  folks  say  it  don't  take  long  to  learn  the 
new  way,"  Mrs.  Rundel  remarked,  from  the  stand- 
point of  a  professional;  "but  as  Jeff  said,  we  hain't 
got  any  time  to  throw  away  when  we  all  want  to 
sing  as  bad  as  we  do." 

"Well,  you'd  better  go  in  and  take  that  dress  off," 
Amanda  advised,  as  she  reached  out  and  caught 
the  hem  of  the  starched  skirt  and  pulled  it  down  a 
little.  "It  shrinks  every  time  it's  washed,  and  you'll 
want  to  wear  it  again  right  off,  I'll  bound  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  wrinkle  it  any  more  than  I  have 
to,"  Mrs.  Rundel  answered.  "I  want  it  to  look  nice 
next  Sunday.  We  hold  two  sessions,  momin'  and 
evenin';  and  next  week — the  day  hasn't  been  set 
yet — we  are  goin'  to  have  a  nip-and-tuck  match 
with  the  Shady  Grove  class." 

"That  will  be  a  heap  o'  fun,"  Amanda  said,  as 
her  sister  passed  her  and  disappeared  within.  For 
a  few  minutes  the  trio  in  the  yard  were  silent.  Ralph 
Rundel's  pipe  glowed  in  the  darkness  like  a  thing  of 
fitful  moods.     Paul  had  not  heard  a  word  of  the 

27 


Paul     Rundel 

foregoing  conversation.  Young  as  he  was,  he  had 
many  things  to  think  of.  The  affair  with  the 
Harris  boys  flitted  across  his  mind;  in  that,  at  least, 
he  was  satisfied;  the  vision  of  the  fleeing  ruffians 
vaguely  soothed  him.  Something  he  had  read  in 
his  book  that  day  about  Napoleon  came  back  to 
him. 

It  was  the  flashing  of  her  sister's  candle  across  the 
grass,  as  Mrs.  Rundel  passed  before  a  window,  that 
drew  Amanda's  thoughts  back  to  a  subject  of  which 
she  was  fond. 

"Folks  has  always  said  I  spoiled  Addie,"  she  said 
to  her  brother-in-law,  in  a  plaintive  tone,  "an'  it 
may  be  so.  Bein'  ten  year  older  when  ma  died, 
I  was  a  mother  to  'er  in  my  best  days.  I  had  no 
chance  myself,  and  somehow  I  determined  she  should 
have  what  I  missed.  I  certainly  made  it  easy  for 
*er.  When  she  started  to  goin'  to  parties  and  out 
with  young  men  I  was  actually  miserable  if  she 
ever  missed  a  chance.  You  know  that,  Rafe — you 
know  what  a  plumb  fool  I  was,  considerin'  how  pore 
pa  was." 

Ralph  turned  his  head  toward  the  speaker,  but 
no  sound  came  from  him.  His  head  rocked,  but 
whether  it  was  meant  as  a  form  of  response,  or  was 
sinking  wearily,  no  one  but  himself  could  have  told. 
After  that  silence  fell,  broken  only  by  the  grinding 
tread  on  the  floor  within. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PAUL  stood  up,  threw  his  arms  backward  lan- 
guidly, and  stretched  himself. 

"Goin'  to  bed?"  his  father  inquired,  absent- 
mindedly. 

"No,  down  to  the  creek;  there  was  a  plenty  of 
cats  and  eels  running  last  night.  Where's  my  cup 
of  bait?" 

"I  hain't  touched  it — I  hain't  dropped  a  hook  in 
water  for  over  two  years.  My  hands  shake,  an'  I 
can't  hold  a  pole  steady.  The  bait's  with  your 
tackle,  I  reckon." 

Paul  went  to  the  wagon-shed  adjoining  the  stable, 
and  from  the  slanting  roof  took  down  a  pair  of  long 
canes,  from  the  tapering  ends  of  which  dangled 
crude,  home-twisted  lines,  to  which  were  attached 
rusty  hooks  and  bits  of  hammered  lead,  and,  with 
the  poles  on  his  shoulder  and  the  bait-cup  in  his 
hand,  he  went  down  the  path  to  the  creek  near  by. 
He  had  a  subtle  fondness  for  Nature,  in  any  mood 
or  dress,  and  the  mystic  landscape  to-night  ap- 
pealed to  a  certain  famished  longing  within  him — 
a  sense  of  an  unattainable  something  which  haunted 
him  in  his  reflective  moods.  The  stars  were  coming 
out  in  the  unclouded  skies,  revealing  the  black  out- 
lines of  the  mountain,  the  intervening  foot-hills,  the 
level  meadows,  where  the  cattle  and  sheep  lay 
asleep,  and  over  which  fireflies  were  darting  and 
flashing  their  tiny  search-lights.     The  sultry  air  held 

29 


Paul     Run  del 

the  aroma  of  new-cut  hay,  of  crushed  and  dying 
clover-blossom.  The  snarl  of  the  tree-frog  and  the 
chirp  of  the  cricket  were  heard  close  at  hand,  and 
in  the  far  distance  the  doleful  howling  of  a  dog 
came  in  response  to  the  voice  of  another,  so  much 
farther  away  that  it  soimded  softer  than  an  echo. 

Presently  Paul  reached  a  spot  on  the  creek-bank 
where  the  creeping  forest-fires  had  burned  the 
bushes  away,  and  where  an  abrupt  curve  of  the 
stream  formed  a  swirling  eddy,  on  the  surface  of 
which  floated  a  mass  of  driftwood,  leaves,  twigs, 
and  pieces  of  bark.  Baiting  his  hooks,  he  lowered 
them  into  the  water,  fastening  one  pole  in  the  earth 
and  holding  the  other  in  his  hands.  He  had  not 
long  to  wait,  for  soon  there  was  a  vigorous  jerking 
and  tugging  at  the  pole  in  his  hands. 

"That's  an  eel  now!"  the  sportsman  chuckled; 
"an'  I'll  land  'im,  if  he  don't  wind  his  tail  roimd  a 
snag  and  break  my  line." 

Eels  are  hard  to  catch,  and  this  one  was  seen  to 
be  nearly  a  yard  in  length  when  Paul  managed  to 
drag  it  ashore.  Even  out  of  water  an  eel  is  hard 
to  conquer,  for  Nature  has  supplied  it  with  a  slimy 
skin  that  aids  it  to  evade  the  strongest  human  grip. 
The  boy  sprang  upon  his  prey  and  grasped  it,  but 
it  wriggled  from  his  hands,  arms,  and  knees,  and 
like  an  animated  rubber  tube  boimded  toward  the 
stream. 

"Nail  'im,  nail  'im!"  cried  out  Ralph  Rundel, 
excitedly,  quickening  his  stride  down  the  path. 
"  Put  sand  on  yore  hands!  Lemme  show  you — thar 
now,  you  got  'im— hold  'im  till  I—"  But  the  snake- 
like thing,  held  for  a  moment  in  Paul's  eager  arms, 
was  away  again.     The  boy  and  the  man  bumped 

30 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

against  each  other  as  they  sprang  after  it,  and  Ralph 
was  fortunate  enough  to  put  the  heel  of  his  shoe  on 
it's  head  and  grind  it  into  the  earth.  The  dying 
thing  coiled  its  lithe  body  round  the  man's  ankle 
like  a  boa,  and  then  gradually  relaxed. 

Now,  fully  alive  to  the  sport,  Paul  gave  all  his 
attention  to  rebaiting  his  hook.  "This  one  raised 
such  a  racket  he  has  scared  all  the  rest  off,"  he  mut- 
tered, his  eyes  on  his  line. 

"They'll  come  back  purty  soon,"  Ralph  said, 
consolingly.  He  sat  down  on  the  sand  and  began 
to  fill  his  pipe.  His  excitement  over  the  eel's  cap- 
ture had  lived  only  a  moment.  There  was  a  fixed 
stare  in  his  eyes,  a  dreamy,  contemplative  note  of 
weariness  in  his  voice,  which  was  that  of  a  man 
who  had  outgrown  all  earthly  interests. 

"How  firm  a  foundation,  ye  saints  of  the  Lord!" 

It  was  the  mellow,  sonorous  voice  of  Jeff  Warren 
singing  at  his  home  across  the  fields. 

"Humph!  He  gits  a  heap  o'  fun  out  of  that,  fust 
an'  last,"  Ralph  remarked,  sardonically,  and  he 
shrugged  his  frail  shoulders.  "It  ain't  so  much  the 
singin'  he  loves — if  I'm  any  judge — as  what  it 
fetches  to  his  net,  as  the  sayin'  is.  He  is  a  bom 
lady's  man.  Jeff  knows  exactly  when  an'  how  to 
say  the  things  that  tickle  a  woman's  fancy.  I 
think — I  think  yore  ma  loves  to  hear  'im  talk  mighty 
nigh  as  well  as  she  loves  to  hear  'im  sing.  I  don't 
know" — a  slight  pause — "I  say  I  don't  know,  but 
I  think  so." 

Paul  thought  he  had  a  bite,  and  he  raised  his 
hook  to  see  if  the  bait  was  intact.  Ralph  sighed 
audibly.     He   embraced    his    thin    knees   with   his 

31 


Paul     Rundel 

arms,  and  held  the  unlighted  pipe  in  his  hands. 
The  hook  was  back  in  the  water;  the  boy's  face  was 
half  averted. 

"Thar's  a  good  many  points  about  Jeff  that 
women  like,"  Ralph  resumed,  in  a  forced,  tentative 
tone.  "He's  a  strappin',  fine-lookin'  feller,  for  one 
thing;  young,  strong,  an'  always  gittin'  in  fights  over 
some'n  or  other.  The  impression  is  out  amongst 
women  an'  gals  that  he  won't  let  nobody  pass  the 
sHghtest  slur  ag'in'  one  o'  the  sex  in  his  hearin'. 
That  will  take  a  man  a  long  way  in  the  opinion  of 
females;  but  all  the  same,  he's  a  sly  devil.  He'll 
do  to  watch — in  my  opinion,  that  is.  I've  thought 
some  that  maybe — well,  I  don't  know  that  I'd  go 
that  fur  neither;  but  a  feller  like  me,  for  instance, 
will  have  odd  notions  once  in  a  while,  especially  if 
he  ain't  actively  engaged  an'  busy,  like  I  am  most 
o'  the  time  since  I've  been  so  porely.  I  was  goin* 
to  say  that  I  didn't  know  but  what  I  ort  to  sorter, 
you  know" — Ralph  hesitated,  and  then  plunged— 
"warn  yore  mother  to — to  go  it  sorter  slow  with 

Jeff." 

Paul  turned  his  back  on  the  speaker  and  began 
to  examine  the  bait  on  his  hook;  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  sensitively,  and  even  in  the  vague  star- 
light evinced  a  certain  show  of  awkwardness.  But 
Ralph  was  unobservant;  his  mental  pictures  were 
evidently  more  clear  to  him  than  material  ones. 

"Yore  aunt  Mandy  is  right,"  Ralph  resumed. 
"She  shorely  did  spoil  yore  ma  for  any  real  re- 
sponsibiHty  in  Hfe.  La  me!  it  was  the  talk  of  the 
neighborhood — I  mean  Mandy's  love-affair  was. 
She  was  just  a  gal  when  she  took  a  big  fancy  to  a 
Yankee  soldier  that  come  along  in  one  o'  Sherman's 

32 


Paul     Rundel 

regiments.  He  was  to  come  back  after  the  war  was 
over,  but  he  never  did.  It  mighty  nigh  killed  'er; 
but  yore  ma  was  then  growin'  up,  and  Mandy  just 
seemed  to  find  comfort  in  pamperin'  and  indulgin' 
her.  Addie  certainly  got  all  that  was  a-goin'!  No 
gal  in  the  neighborhood  had  nicer  fixin's;  she  was 
just  like  a  doll  kept  in  a  bandbox.  Stacks  and 
stacks  o'  fellows  was  after  her,  me  in  the  bunch,  of 
course.  At  first  it  looked  like  I  didn't  stand  much 
of  a  show;  but  my  grandfather  died  about  then  an' 
left  me  the  farm  I  used  to  own.  I  reckon  that  turned 
the  scale,  for  the  rest  o'  the  fellows  didn't  own  a 
foot  o'  land,  a  stick  o'  timber,  or  a  head  o'  stock. 
I  say  it  turned  the  scale,  but  I  don't  mean  that 
Addie  cared  much  one  way  or  the  other.  Mandy 
had  it  in  hand.  I  begun  to  see  that  she  sorter  held 
the  rest  off  and  throwed  me  an'  Addie  together  like 
at  every  possible  chance — laughin'  an'  jokin'  an' 
takin'  a  big  interest  an'  tellin'  me  she  was  on  my 
side.  You  see,  it  was  a  case  o'  the  real  thing  with 
me.  From  the  fust  day  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  yore 
ma,  an'  heard  'er  talk  in  her  babyish  way,  I  couldn't 
think  o'  nothin'  else.  I  felt  a  little  squeamish  over 
bein'  so  much  older  'an  her;  but  Mandy  laughed 
good  an'  hearty,  an'  said  we'd  grow  together  as  time 
passed.  Addie  kept  me  in  hot  water  for  a  long  while 
even  after  that — looked  like  she  didn't  want  Mandy 
to  manage  for  her,  an'  kicked  over  the  traces  some. 
I  remember  I  had  to  beg  an'  beg,  an'  Mandy  argued 
an'  scolded  an'  nagged  till  Addie  finally  consented. 
But,  la  me!  how  a  feller's  hopes  kin  fall!  Hard 
times  came.  I  borrowed  on  my  land  to  keep  Addie 
supplied  with  nice  things,  an'  my  crops  went  crooked. 
I  lost  money  in  a  sawmill,  an'  finally  got  to  be  a 

33 


Paul     Rundel 

land-renter  like  I  am  now,  low  in  health  an'  spirits, 
an'  dependent  on  you  for  even  my  tobacco — to- 
bacco.''' Ralph  repeated  the  word,  for  his  voice  had 
become  indistinct. 

' '  That's  all  right, ' '  Paul  said,  testily.  "  Go  on  tobed. 
Settin'  up  like  this  ain't  goin'  to  do  you  no  good." 

"It  does  me  more  good'n  you  think,"  Ralph  as- 
serted. "I  hold  in  all  day  long  with  not  a  soul  to 
talk  to,  an'  dyin'  to  say  things  to  somebody.  I 
ain't  hardly  got  started.  Thar's  a  heap  more — a 
heap  that  I'm  afraid  you  are  too  young  to  under- 
stand; but  you  will  some  day.  Yore  time  will 
come,  too.  Yore  lady-love  will  cross  yore  track,  an' 
you'll  see  visions  in  her  eyes  that  never  was  on  land 
or  sea.  I  look  at  you  sometimes  an'  think  that  may- 
be you  will  become  a  great  man,  an'  I'll  tell  you  why. 
It  is  because  you  are  sech  a  hard  worker  an'  stick 
to  a  job  so  steady,  and  because  you've  got  sech  a 
hot,  spicy  temper  when  folks  rile  you  by  treatin' 
you  wrong.  Folks  say  thar  is  some'n  in  blood,  an' 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  because  I'm  sech  a  flat 
failure  that  you  have  to  be.  Experts  in  sech  mat- 
ters say  that  a  body  is  just  as  apt  to  copy  after 
far-off  kin  as  that  which  is  close  by,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  something.  It  is  about  the  Rundel  stock. 
Three  year  ago,  when  I  was  a  witness  in  a  moon- 
shine case  at  government  court,  in  Atlanta,  my 
expenses  was  paid,  an'  I  went  down,  an'  while  I  was  in 
the  city  a  feller  called  on  me  at  my  boardin'-house. 
He  said  the  paper  had  printed  my  name  in  connection 
with  the  case,  an'  he  looked  me  up  because  he  was 
interested  in  everybody  by  the  name  o'  Rundel.  He 
was  writin'  a  family  history  for  some  rich  folks  that 
wanted  it  all  down  in  black  an'  white  to  keep  for  future 

34 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

generations  to  look  at.  He  was  dressed  fine,  and 
talked  like  a  presidin'  elder  or  a  bishop.  He  told  me, 
what  I  never  had  heard  before,  that  the  name  ought 
to  be' spelled  with  an  A  in  front — Arundel.  He 
had  a  short  way  o'  twistin'  it  that  I  can't  remember. 
He  said  thar  was  several  ways  o'  callin'  the  name, 
an'  he  laughed  an'  said  he  met  one  old  backwoods 
chap  in  Kentucky  that  said  his  was  'Runnels' 
because  his  neighbors  called  'im  that,  an'  he  liked  the 
sound  of  it.  He  set  for  a  good  hour  or  more  tellin' 
me  about  the  ups  an'  downs  of  folks  by  the  name. 
He  said  what  made  the  whole  thing  so  encouragin' 
was  that  the  majority  of  'em  was  continually  on 
the  rise.  He'd  knowed  'em,  he  said,  to  be  plumb 
down  an'  out  for  several  generations,  an'  then  to 
pop  up  an'  produce  a  man  of  great  fame  an'  power. 
He  had  a  Hst  o'  big  guns  as  long  as  yore  arm.  I 
knowed  I  was  too  far  gone  to  benefit  by  it  myself, 
but  I  thought  about  you,  an'  I  felt  comforted.  I've 
always  remembered  with  hope  an'  pride,  too,  what 
vSilas  Tye  told  me  about  the  tramp  phrenologist  that 
examined  heads  at  his  shop  one  day.  He  said  men 
was  payin'  the'r  quarters  an'  Hstenin'  to  predictions 
an'  hearin'  nothin'  of  any  weight;  but  that  the  feller 
kept  lookin'  at  you  while  you  set  waitin',  an'  finally 
Tye  said  the  feller  told  the  crowd  that  you  had  sech 
a  fine  head  an'  eye  an'  shaped  hands  an'  feet  an' 
ankles,  like  a  blooded  hoss,  that  he  would  pass  on 
you  for  nothin'.  Tye  said  you  got  mad  an'  went  off 
in  a  big  huff;  but  the  feller  stuck  to  what  he'd  said. 
He  declared  you'd  make  yore  way  up  in  the  world 
as  sure  as  fate,  if  you  wasn't  halted  by  some  acci- 
dent or  other." 

Paul  saw  his  line  moving  forward,  liis  tense  hands 

35 


Paul     Rundel 

eagerly  clutching  his  rod,  but  the  swishing  cord 
suddenly  became  slack  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
An  impatient  oath  slipped  from  his  lips. 

"Snapped  my  line  right  at  the  sinker!"  he  cried. 
"He  was  a  jim-dandy,  too,  bigger  than  that  one." 
He  threw  the  pole  with  the  broken  line  on  the  bank 
and  grasped  the  other.  If  he  had  heard  the  ram- 
bling talk  of  his  father  it  was  completely  forgotten. 

"Folks  laugh  at  me'n  you  both,"  Ralph  ran  on, 
a  softer  cadence  in  his  voice.  "They  say  I've  been 
a  mammy  to  you,  a  nuss'  an'  what  not.  Well,  I 
reckon  thar's  truth  in  it.  After  I  found — found  that 
me'n  yore  ma  wasn't  the  sweethearts  I  thought  we 
would  be,  an'  you'd  come  an'  looked  so  little  an' 
red  an'  helpless  in  the  pore  little  cradle  I  made  out 
of  a  candle-box  with  wobbly  rockers — I  say,  I  reckon 
then  that  I  did  sorter  take  yore  ma's  place.  She 
wasn't  givin'  milk,  an'  the  midwife  advised  a  bottle, 
and  it  looked  like  neither  one  o'  the  women  would 
keep  it  filled  an'  give  it  at  the  right  time.  I'd  go 
to  the  field  an'  try  to  work,  but  fearin'  you  was 
neglected  I'd  go  to  the  house  an'  take  you  up  an' 
tote  you  about.  It  was  tumin'  things  the  wrong 
way,  I  reckon,  but  I  was  a  plumb  fool  about  you. 
Yore  mother  seemed  willin'  to  shift  the  job,  an'  yore 
aunt  was  always  busy  fixin'  this  or  that  trick  for 
her  to  wear.  But  I  ain't  complainin' — understand 
that — I  liked  it.  Yore  little  warm,  soft  body  used 
to  give  me  a  feelin'  no  man  kin  describe.  An'  I 
suffered,  too.  Many  a  night  I  got  up  when  you  was 
croupy,  an'  uncovered  the  fire  an'  put  on  wood  an* 
set  an'  rocked  you,  fearin'  every  wheezy  breath  you 
drawed  would  stop  in  yore  throat.  But  I  got  my 
reward,  if  reward  was  deserved,  for  you  gave  me 

36 


PaulRundel 

the  only  love  that  I  ever  knowed  about.  Even  as 
a  baby  you'd  cry  for  me — cry  when  I  left  you,  an' 
coo  an'  chuckle,  an'  hold  out  yore  Httle  chubby 
hands  whenever  I  come.  As  you  got  older  you'd 
toddle  down  the  field-road  to  meet  me,  yore  yaller, 
flaxen  head  hardly  as  high  as  the  broom-sedge.  I 
loved  to  tote  you  even  after  you  got  so  big  folks  said 
I  looked  ridiculous.  You  was  about  seven  when  my 
wagon  run  over  me  an'  laid  me  up  for  a  spell.  I'll 
never  forget  how  you  acted.  You  was  the  only  one 
in  the  family  that  seemed  a  bit  bothered.  You'd 
come  to  my  bed  the  minute  you  got  home  from 
school,  an'  set  thar  an'  rub  my  head.  While  that 
spell  lasted  I  was  the  baby,  an'  you  the  mammy,  an' 
to  this  day  I  ain't  able  to  recall  a  happier  time."     , 

Ralph  rose  and  stood  by  his  son  for  a  moment,  his 
gaze  on  the  steady  rod.  "I'll  take  the  eel  to  the 
house,"  he  said,  "an'  skin  it  an'  slice  it  up  an'  salt 
it  down  for  breakfast.  You  may  find  me  in  yore 
bed.  This  is  one  o'  the  times  I  feel  like  sleepin' 
with  you — that  is,  if  you  don't  care?" 

"It  is  all  right,  go  ahead,"  Paul  said;  "there  is 
plenty  of  room." 

With  the  eel  swinging  in  his  hand,  his  body  bent, 
Ralph  trudged  toward  the  house,  which,  a  dun  blur 
on  the  landscape,  showed  in  the  hazy  starlight.  A 
dewy  robe  had  settled  on  every  visible  object.  An 
owl  was  dismally  hooting  in  the  wood,  which  sloped 
down  from  the  craggy  mountain.  In  the  stagnant 
pools  of  the  lowlands  frogs  were  croaking,  hooting, 
and  snarling;  the  mountain-ridge,  with  its  serried 
trees  against  the  sky,  looked  like  a  vast  sleeping 
monster  under  cloud-coverings. 

Now  and  then  Jeff  Warren  was  lieard  singing. 

37 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  certain  times  during  the  year  Paul  was  en- 
.  abled  to  earn  a  little  extra  money  by  hauling 
fire- wood  to  the  village  and  selling  it  to  the  house- 
holders. One  morning  he  was  standing  by  his 
wagon,  waiting  for  a  customer  for  a  load  of  oak, 
when  Hoag  came  from  the  bar-room  at  the  hotel 
and  steered  toward  him.  The  planter's  face  was 
slightly  flushed  from  drink,  and  he  was  in  a  jovial 
mood. 

"Been  playing  billiards,"  he  said,  thickly,  and  he 
jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  green,  swinging  doors 
of  the  bar.  ' '  Had  six  tilts  with  a  St.  Louis  drummer, 
an'  beat  the  socks  off  of  'im.  I  won  his  treats  an' 
I'm  just  a  little  bit  full,  but  it  will  wear  off.  It's 
got  to.  I'm  goin'  in  to  eat  dinner  with  my  sister — 
you've  seen  'er— Mrs.  Mayfield.  She's  up  from 
Atlanta  with  her  little  girl  to  git  the  mountain  air 
an'  country  cookin'." 

At  this  moment  Peter  Kerr,  the  proprietor  of  the 
hotel,  came  out  ringing  the  dinner-bell.  He  was 
a  medium-sized  man  of  forty,  with  black  eyes  and 
hair,  the  skin  of  a  Spaniard,  and  an  ever-present, 
complacent  smile.  He  strode  from  end  to  end  of  the 
long  veranda,  swinging  the  bell  in  front  of  him. 
When  Kerr  was  near,  Hoag  motioned  to  him  to 
approach,  and  Kerr  did  so,  silencing  the  bell  by 
catching  hold  of  the  clapper  and  swinging  the  handle 

38 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

downward.  Hoag  laid  his  hand  on  Paul's  shoulder 
and  bore  down  with  unconscious  weight. 

"Say,  Pete,"  he  said,  "you  know  this  boy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  everybody  does,  I  reckon,"  Kerr  an- 
swered patronizingly. 

"Well,  he's  the  best  hand  I've  got,"  Hoag  said, 
sincerely  enough;  "the  hardest  worker  in  seven 
States.  Now,  here's  what  I  want.  Paul  eats  out 
at  my  home  as  a  rule  an'  he's  got  to  git  dinner  here 
at  my  expense  to-day.     Charge  it  to  me." 

Paul  flushed  hotly — an  unusual  thing  for  him — 
and  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  goin'  home  to  dinner,"  he  stammered,  his 
glance   averted. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Hoag  objected, 
warmly.  "You've  got  that  wood  to  sell,  an'  no- 
body will  buy  it  at  dinner-time.  Every  livin'  soul 
is  at  home.  Besides,  I  want  to  talk  over  some  mat- 
ters with  you  afterward.  Fix  'im  a  place,  Pete,  an' 
make  them  niggers  wait  on  'im." 

There  was  no  way  out  of  it,  and  Paul  reluctantly 
gave  in.  With  bin^ly  roughness,  which  was  not  free 
from  open  patronage,  the  planter  caught  him  by 
the  arm  and  drew  him  up  the  steps  of  the  hotel 
and  on  into  the  house,  which  Paul  knew  but  slightly, 
having  been  there  only  once  or  twice  to  sell  game, 
vegetables,  or  other  farm  produce. 

The  office  was  noisily  full  of  farmers,  traveling 
salesmen,  lawyers,  merchants,  and  clerks  who 
boarded  there  or  dropped  in  to  meals  at  the  special 
rate  given  to  all  citizens  of  the  place  and  vicinity. 
On  the  right  hand  was  a  long,  narrow  "wash-room." 
It  had  shelves  holding  basins  and  pails  of  water, 
sloping  troughs  into  which  slops  were  poured,  towels 

39 


Paul     Rundel 

on  wooden  rollers,  and  looking-glasses  from  the 
oaken  frames  of  which  dangled,  at  the  ends  of 
strings,  uncleanly  combs  and  brushes. 

When  he  had  bathed  his  face  and  hands  and 
brushed  his  hair,  Paul  returned  to  the  office,  where 
the  proprietor — with  some  more  patronage — took 
him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  to  the  door  of  the  big 
dining-room.  It  was  a  memorable  event  in  the  boy's 
life.  He  was  overwhelmed  with  awe;  he  had  the 
feeling  that  his  real  ego  was  encumbered  with  those 
alien  things — legs,  arms,  body,  and  blood  which 
madly  throbbed  in  his  veins  and  packed  into 
his  face.  He  would  not  have  hesitated  for  an 
instant  to  engage  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  a 
man  wearing  the  raiment  of  an  emperor's  guard, 
if  occasion  had  demanded  it;  but  this  new  thing 
under  the  heavens  gave  him  pause  as  nothing  else 
ever  had  done.  The  low-ceiled  room,  with  its  many 
windows  curtained  in  white,  gauzy  stuff,  long  tables 
covered  with  snowy  linen,  glittering  glass,  sparkling 
plated-ware,  and  gleaming  china,  seemed  to  have 
sprung  into  being  by  some  enchantment  full  of 
designs  against  his  timidity.  There  was  a  clatter 
of  dishes,  knives,  forks,  and  spoons;  a  busy  hum  of 
voices;  the  patter  of  swift-moving  feet;  the  jar  and 
bang  of  the  door  opening  into  the  adjoining  kitchen, 
as  the  white-aproned  negroes  darted  here  and  there, 
holding  aloft  trays  of  food. 

Seeing  Paul  hesitating  where  the  proprietor  had  left 
him,  the  negro  head  waiter  came  and  led  him.  to  a 
seat  at  a  small  table  in  a  comer  somewhat  removed 
from  the  other  diners.  It  was  the  boy's  rough 
aspect  and  poor  clothing  which  had  caused  this  dis- 
crimination against   him,  but   he  was  unaware  of 

40 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

the  difference.  Indeed,  he  was  overjoyed  to  find 
that  his  entrance  and  presence  were  unnoticed.  He 
felt  very  much  out  of  place  with  all  those  queer 
dishes  before  him.  The  napkin,  folded  in  a  goblet  at 
his  plate,  was  a  thing  he  had  heard  of  but  never  used, 
and  it  remained  unopened,  even  after  the  waiter 
had  shaken  it  out  of  the  goblet  to  give  him  ice- 
water.  There  were  hand-written  bills  of  fare  on 
the  other  tables,  but  the  waiter  simply  brought 
Paul  a  goodly  supply  of  food  and  left  him.  He  was 
a  natural  human  being  and  unusually  hungry,  and 
for  a  few  moments  he  all  but  forgot  his  surroundings 
in  pure  animal  enjoyment.  His  appetite  satisfied, 
he  sat  drinking  his  coffee  and  looking  about  the  room. 
On  his  right  was  a  long  table,  at  which  sat  eight 
or  ten  traveling  salesmen;  and  in  their  unstudied 
men-of-the-world  ease,  as  they  sat  ordering  cigars 
from  the  office,  striking  matches  under  their  chairs, 
and  smoking  in  lounging  attitudes,  telling  yams  and 
jesting  with  one  another,  they  seemed  to  the  boy  to 
be  a  class  quite  worthy  of  envy.  They  dressed  well ; 
they  spent  money;  they  knew  all  the  latest  jokes; 
they  traveled  on  trains  and  lived  in  hotels;  they 
had  seen  the  great  outer  world.  Paul  decided  that 
he  would  like  to  be  a  drummer;  but  something  told 
him  that  he  would  never  be  anything  but  what  he 
was,  a  laborer  in  the  open  air — a  servant  who  had  to 
be  obedient  to  another's  will  or  starve. 

At  this  moment  his  attention  was  drawn  to  the 
entrance.  Hoag  was  coming  in  accompanied  by  a 
lady  and  little  girl,  and,  treading  ponderously,  he 
led  them  down  the  side  of  the  room  to  a  table  on 
Paul's  left.  Hoag  seemed  quite  a  different  man, 
with  his  unwonted  and  clumsy  air  of  gallantry  as  he 

4  41 


Paul     Rundel 

stood  holding  the  back  of  his  sister's  chair,  which 
he  had  drawn  out,  and  spoke  to  the  head  waiter 
about  "something  special"  he  had  told  the  cook 
to  prepare.  And  when  he  sat  down  he  seemed  quite 
out  of  place,  Paul  thought,  in  the  company  of  per- 
sons of  so  much  obvious  refinement.  He  certainly 
bore  no  resemblance  to  his  sister  or  his  niece.  Mrs. 
Ma3^eld  had  a  fair,  smooth  brow,  over  which  the 
brown  tresses  fell  in  gentle  waves;  a  slender  body, 
thin  neck,  and  white,  tapering  hands.  But  it  was 
Ethel,  the  little  girl,  who  captured  and  held  from 
that  moment  forth  the  attention  of  the  mountain- 
boy.  Paul  had  never  beheld  such  dainty,  appealing 
loveliness.  She  was  as  white  and  fair  as  a  Hly.  Her 
long-lashed  eyes  were  blue  and  dreamy;  her  nose, 
Hps,  and  chin  perfect  in  contour.  She  wore  a  pretty 
dress  of  dainty  blue,  with  white  stockings  and 
pointed  slippers.  How  irreverent,  even  contaminat- 
ing, seemed  Hoag's  coarse  hand  when  it  rested 
once  on  her  head  as  he  smiled  carelessly  into  the 
girl's  face!     Paul  felt  his  blood  boil  and  throb. 

"Half  drunk!"  he  muttered.  "He's  a  hog,  and 
ought  to  be  kicked." 

Then  he  saw  that  Hoag  had  observed  him,  and 
to  his  great  consternation  the  planter  sat  smiHng 
and  pointing  the  prongs  of  his  fork  at  him.  Paul 
heard  his  name  called,  and  both  the  lady  and  her 
daughter  glanced  at  him  and  smiled  in  quite  a 
friendly  way,  as  if  the  fork  had  introduced  them. 
Paul  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face;  a  blinding  mist 
fell  before  his  eyes,  and  the  whole  noisy  room  be- 
came a  chaos  of  floating  objects.  When  his  sight 
cleared  he  saw  that  the  three  were  looking  in  another 
direction;    but  his  embarrassment  was   not  over, 

42 


Paul     Rundel 

for  the  head  waiter  came  to  him  just  then  and  told 
him  that  Mr.  Hoag  wanted  him  to  come  to  his 
table  as  soon  as  his  dinner  was  finished. 

Paul  gulped  his  coffee  down  now  in  actual  terror 
of  something  intangible,  and  yet  more  to  be  dreaded 
than  anything  he  had  ever  before  encountered.  He 
was  quite  certain  that  he  would  not  obey.  Hoag 
might  take  offense,  swear  at  him,  discharge  him; 
but  that  was  of  no  consequence  beside  the  horrible 
ordeal  the  man's  drunken  brain  had  devised.  Hoag 
was  again  looking  at  him;  he  was  smiling  broadly, 
confidently,  and  swung  his  head  to  one  side  in  a 
gesture  which  commanded  Paul  to  come  over.  Mrs. 
Mayfield's  face  also  wore  a  slight  smile  of  agree- 
ment with  her  brother's  mood;  but  Ethel,  the  little 
girl,  kept  her  long-lashed  and  somewhat  conscious 
eyes  on  the  table.  Again  the  hot  waves  of  confusion 
beat  in  Paul's  face,  brow,  and  eyes.  He  doggedly 
shook  his  head  at  Hoag,  and  then  his  heart  sank, 
for  he  knew  that  he  was  also  responding  to  the  lady's 
smile  in  a  way  that  was  unbecoming  in  a  boy  even 
of  the  lowest  order,  yet  he  was  powerless  to  act 
otherwise.  Like  a  blind  man  driven  desperate  by 
encroaching  danger  that  could  not  be  located,  he 
rose,  turned  toward  the  door,  and  fairly  plunged  for- 
ward. The  toe  of  his  right  foot  struck  the  heel  of 
his  left,  and  he  stumbled  and  almost  fell.  To  get 
out  he  had  to  pass  close  to  Hoag's  table,  and  though 
he  did  not  look  at  the  trio,  he  felt  their  surprised 
stare  on  him,  and  knew  that  they  were  reading  his 
humiliation  in  his  flaming  face.  He  heard  the  planter 
laugh  in  high  merriment,  and  caught  the  words : 

"Come  here,  you  young  fool,  we  are  not  goin'  to 
bite  you!" 

43 


Paul     Rundel 

It  seemed  to  the  boy,  as  he  incontinently  fled  the 
spot,  that  the  whole  room  had  witnessed  his  dis- 
grace. In  fancy  he  heard  the  waiters  laughing  and 
the  amused  comments  of  the  drummers. 

The  landlord  tried  to  detain  him  as  he  hurried 
through  the  office. 

"Did  you  git  enough  feat?"  he  asked;  but,  as 
if  pursued  by  a  horde  of  furies,  Paul  dashed  on  into 
the  street. 

He  found  a  man  inspecting  his  load  of  wood  and 
sold  it  to  him,  receiving  instructions  as  to  which 
house  to  take  it  to  and  where  it  was  to  be  left. 
With  the  hot  sense  of  humiliation  still  on  him,  he 
drove  down  the  street  to  the  rear  fence  of  a  cottage 
and  threw  the  wood  over,  swearing  at  himself,  at 
Hoag,  at  life  in  general,  but  through  it  all  he  saw 
Ethel  Mayfield's  long,  golden  hair,  her  eyes  of 
dreamy  blue,  and  pretty,  curving  lips.  She  re- 
mained in  his  thoughts  as  he  drove  his  rattling 
wagon  home  through  the  slanting  rays  of  the  after- 
noon sun.  She  was  in  his  mind  so  much,  indeed,  from 
that  day  on,  that  he  avoided  contact  with  the  mem- 
bers of  his  family.  He  loved  to  steal  away  into  the 
woods  alone,  or  to  the  hilltops,  and  fancy  that  she 
was  with  him  listening  to  his  wise  explanation  of 
this  or  that  rural  thing  which  a  girl  from  a  city  could 
not  know,  and  which  a  girl  from  a  city,  to  be  well 
informed,  ought  to  know. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BY  chance  he  met  her  a  week  or  so  later.  She  and 
her  mother  were  spending  the  day  at  Hoag's, 
and  near  noon  Ethel  had  strolled  across  the  pasture, 
gathering  wild -flowers.  Paul  had  been  working 
at  the  tannery  assisting  a  negro  crushing  bark  for 
the  vats,  and  was  starting  home  to  get  his  dinner 
when  he  saw  her.  She  wore  a  big  sailor  hat  and  a 
very  becoming  dress  of  a  different  color  from  the 
one  he  had  first  seen  her  in.  He  wanted  to  take  a 
good  look  at  her,  but  was  afraid  she  would  see  him. 
She  had  her  hands  full  of  flowers  and  fern  leaves, 
and  was  daintily  picking  her  way  through  the  thick 
broom-sedge.  He  had  passed  on,  and  his  back  was 
to  her  when  he  heard  her  scream  out  in  fright,  and, 
turning,  he  saw  her  running  toward  him.  He  hur- 
ried back,  climbed  over  the  rail  fence,  and  met  her. 

"A  snake,  a  snake!"  she  cried,  white  with  terror. 

"Where?"  he  asked,  boyishly  conscious  that  his 
moment  had  arrived  for  showing  contempt  for  all 
such  trivialities. 

"There,"  she  pointed,  "back  under  those  rocks. 
It  was  coiled  up  right  imder  my  feet  and  ran  when 
it  saw  me." 

There  was  a  fallen  branch  of  a  tree  near  by,  and 
coolly  picking  it  up  he  broke  it  across  his  knee 
to  the  length  of  a  cudgel,  then  twisted  the  twigs  and 
bark  off.  He  swung  it  easily  like  a  ball-player 
handling  a  bat. 

45 


Paul     Rundel 

"Now,  come  show  me,"  he  said,  riding  on  a  veri- 
table cloud  of  self-confidence.     "Where  did  it  go?" 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid!"  she  cried.  "Don't  go,  it  will 
bite  you!" 

He  laughed  contemptuously.  "How  could  it?" 
he  sneered.  "It  wouldn't  stand  a  ghost  of  a  chance 
against  this  club."  He  advanced  to  the  pile  of 
rocks  she  now  indicated,  and  she  stood  aloof,  hold- 
ing her  breath,  her  little  hands  pressed  to  her  white 
cheeks,  as  he  began  prying  the  stones  and  boldly 
thrusting  into  crevices.  Presently  from  the  heap 
a  brownish  snake  ran.  Ethel  saw  it  and  screamed 
again;  but  even  as  he  struck  she  heard  him  laugh 
derisively.  "Don't  be  silly!"  he  said,  and  the 
next  moment  he  had  the  dying  thing  by  the  tail, 
calmly  holding  it  up  for  her  inspection,  its  battered 
and  flattened  head  touching  the  ground. 

"It's  a  highland  moccasin,"  he  nonchalantly  in- 
structed her.  "They  are  as  poisonous  as  rattlers. 
It's  a  good  thing  you  didn't  step  on  it,  I  tell  you. 
They  He  in  the  sun,  and  fellers  mowing  hay  some- 
times get  bit  to  the  bone." 

"Drop  it!  Put  it  down!"  Ethel  cried,  her  pretty 
face  still  pale.     "Look,  it's  moving!" 

"Oh,  it  will  wiggle  that  way  till  the  sun  goes 
down,"  he  smiled  down  from  his  biological  height; 
"but  it  is  plumb  done  for.  Lawsy  me!  I've  killed 
more  of  them  than  I've  got  fingers  and  toes." 

Reasurred,  she  drew  nearer  and  looked  at  him 
admiringly.  He  was  certainly  a  strong,  well-formed 
lad,  and  his  courage  was  unquestionable.  Out  of 
respect  for  her  fears  he  dropped  the  reptile,  and  she 
bent  down  and  examined  it.  Again  the  strange,  new 
power  she  had  from  the  first  exercised  over  him 

46 


Paul     Rundel 

seemed  to  exude  from  her  whole  being,  and  he  felt 
a  return  of  the  cold,  insecure  sensation  of  the  hotel 
dining-room.  His  heart  seemed  to  be  pumping  its 
blood  straight  to  his  face  and  brain.  Her  little 
white  hands  were  so  frail  and  flower-like;  her  golden 
tresses,  falling  over  her  proud  shoulders  like  a  gauzy 
mantle,  gave  out  a  delicate  fragrance.  What  a 
vision  of  loveliness!  Seen  close  at  hand,  she  was 
even  prettier  than  he  had  thought.  He  had  once 
admired  Sally  Tibbits,  whom  he  had  kissed  at  a 
corn-husking,  as  a  reward  for  finding  the  red  ear 
which  lay  almost  in  Sally's  lap,  and  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  game,  she  could  have  hidden;  but  Sally 
had  never  worn  shoes,  that  he  could  remember,  and 
as  he  recalled  her  now,  by  way  of  comparison,  her 
legs  were  ridiculously  brown  and  brier-scratched; 
her  homespun  dress  was  a  poor  bag  of  a  thing,  and 
her  dingy  chestnut  hair  seemed  as  lifeless  as  her 
neglected  complexion.  And  Ethel's  voice!  He  had 
never  heard  anything  so  mellow,  soft,  and  bewitch- 
ing. She  seemed  like  a  princess  in  one  of  his  story- 
books, the  sort  tailors'  sons  used  to  meet  and  marry 
by  rubbing  up  old  lamps. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  She  looked 
straight  at  him,  and  he  felt  the  force  of  her  royal  eyes. 

"Well,  I  don't  intend  to  take  it  to  the  graveyard," 
he  boldly  jested.  "I'll  leave  it  here  for  the  buz- 
zards." He  pointed  to  the  cloud-flecked  sky,  where 
several  vultures  were  slowly  circling.  "They'll 
settle  here  as  soon  as  our  backs  are  turned.  Folks 
say  they  go  by  the  smell  of  rotten  flesh,  but  I  be- 
lieve their  sense  is  keener  than  that.  I  wouldn't 
be  much  surprised  if  they  watched  and  seed  me  kill 
that  snake." 

47 


Paul     Rundel 

"How  funny  you  talk!"  Ethel  said,  in  no  tone  of 
disrespect,  but  rather  that  of  the  mild  inquisitive- 
ness  of  a  stranger  studying  a  foreign  tongue.  "You 
said  seed  for  saw.  Why,  my  teacher  would  give  me 
awful  marks  if  I  made  a  mistake  like  that.  Of 
course,  it  may  be  correct  here  in  the  mountains." 

Paul  flushed  a  deeper  red;  there  was  a  touch  of 
resentment  in  his  voice. 

"Folks  talk  that  way  round  here,"  he  blurted 
out;  "grown-up  folks.  We  don't  try  to  put  on 
style  like  stuck-up  town  folks." 

"Please  forgive  me."  Ethel's  voice  fell;  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  lightly  touched  his.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  and  I  never  will  say 
such  a  thing  again — never,  on  my  honor." 

He  bitterly  repented  it  afterward,  but  he  rudely 
drew  his  hand  away,  and  stood  frowning,  his  glance 
averted. 

•  "I  am  very  sorry,"  Ethel  said,  "and  I  can't  blame 
you — I  really  can't.  What  I  said  was  a  great  deal 
worse  than  your  little  mistake.  My  mother  says 
rudeness  is  never  excusable." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  gave  in,  as  gracefully  as  he 
could. 

"And  are  you  sure  you  aren't  mad  with  me?"  she 
pursued,  anxiously. 

"Nothin'  to  be  mad  about,"  he  returned,  kicking 
the  snake  with  his  foot. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  won't  hate  me,"  she  said.  "I 
feel  that  I  know  you  pretty  well.  Uncle  told  us  a 
lot  about  you  that  day  at  the  hotel.  He  said  you 
were  the  bravest  boy  he  ever  saw  and  the  hardest 
worker.  I  saw  you  looked  embarrassed  that  day, 
and  he  had  no  right  to  tease  you  as  he  did;  but  he 

48 


Paul     Rundel 

was — of  course,  you  know  what  was  the  matter 
with  him?" 

Paul  nodded.  "I  wasn't  going  to  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  him,"  he  declared.  "I  wasn't — wasn't  fixed 
up  fit  to — to  be  seen  by  anybody,  any  more  than  I 
am  now,  for  that  matter;  but  I  can't  do  the  work 
I  have  to  do  and  go  dressed  like  a  town  dude." 

"Of  course  not — of  course  not,"  Ethel  agreed, 
sympathetically,  "and  Uncle  says  you  spend  all  you 
make  on  others,  anyway.  He  was  telling  us  about 
how  you  loved  your  father  and  took  care  of  him. 
You  know,  I  think  that  is  wonderful,  and  so  does 
mama.  Boys  are  not  like  that  in  Atlanta ;  they  are 
lazy  and  spoiled,  and  bad,  generally.  People  in  a 
city  are  so  different,  you  know.  Mama  says  the 
greatest  men  were  once  poor  country  boys.  I'd 
think  that  was  encouraging,  if  I  was — if  I  were 
you — see,  I  make  slips  myself!  After  if  you  must 
always  say  were  to  be  strictly  correct.  Just  think 
of  it,  when  I  am  grown  up  you  may  be  a  great  man, 
and  be  ashamed  even  to  know  me." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  frowned.  The 
flush  had  partly  left  his  face,  leaving  splotches  of 
white  here  and  there.  "No  hopes  of  me  ever  mak- 
in'  any  sort  of  rise,"  he  declared.  "There  is  too 
much  to  do  at  home;  I  don't  get  time  to  go  to  school 
or  study." 

"What  a  pity!"  Ethel  sighed.  She  swept  him 
from  head  to  foot  critically.  Touches  of  pink  lay 
on  her  cheeks  just  below  her  earnest  eyes.  "You 
are  good-looking — you — you  really  are  handsome, 
and  so  strong  and  brave!  Somehow  I  feel  certain 
that  you  are  going  to  be  successful.  I — I  am  going 
to  pray  for  it.     They  say  God  answers  prayers  when 

49 


Paul     Rundel 

they  are  the  right  kind,  and  I  know  mine  would  be 
right."     . 

"I  don't  beHeve  any  of  that  rubbish,"  he  said, 
loftily.  "I've  heard  your  uncle  Jim  laugh  at  the 
preachers  and  folks  that  get  converted  one  day  and 
are  plumb  over  it  the  next.  He  says  they  are  the 
biggest  fools  in  the  world." 

"I  know  he  talks  that  way,  and  it  worries  mama 
awfully,"  the  girl  said.  "I'm  afraid  he's  terribly 
bad.  You  see,  he  drinks,  plays  cards,  curses,  and 
is  hard  on  the  negroes  who  work  for  him.  Now, 
the  truth  is  that  the  people  who  go  to  church  really 
are  better  than  he  is,  and  that,  in  itself,  ought  to 
show  he's  wrong — don't  you  think  so?" 

"He  just  uses  his  natural  brain,"  Paul  returned, 
philosophically.  "He  says  there  is  just  one  life,  an' 
he's  goin'  to  get  all  he  can  out  of  it.  I  don't  blame 
him.  He's  rich — he  can  buy  and  sell  the  folks  round 
here  that  say  he  don't  know  what  he's  talkin*  about. 
He  says  there  ain't  no  God,  and  he  can  prove  it. 
He  made  it  purty  plain  one  day  while  he  was  talking 
to  a  crowd  at  the  tan-yard.  He  told  'em,  if  they 
believed  there  was  any  such  thing,  for  'em  to  pray 
for  some'n  and  see  if  they'd  get  it.  He  told  about 
a  gang  of  Methodists  that  was  praying  for  money 
to  make  a  church  bigger,  and  the  Hghtning  struck 
it  and  burned  it  down." 

"Did  you  never  pray  yourself?"  Ethel  questioned, 
quite  irrelevantly. 

He  hesitated;  his  color  flamed  again  in  his  face, 
and  he  avoided  her  gentle,  upward  gaze.  "Not — 
not  since  I  was  very  little,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 
"I  don't  believe  in  it;  the  whole  shoutin',  singin'- 
and-prayin'  bunch  of  meetin'-folks  make  me  sick." 

50 


Paul     Rundel 

"Uncle  is  responsible  for  all  that,"  Ethel  declared. 
"You  naturally  would  look  up  to  him;  but  I  be- 
lieve he  is  wrong— I  really  do.  I  Hkc  good  people, 
and,  while  he  is  my  uncle,  I — well,  I  don't  feel  the 
same  toward  him  as  I  would  if  he  were  a  different 
sort  of  man." 

"He's  all  right,"  Paul  defended.  "He's  rough, 
and  curses  some  when  he's  mad,  but  you  can  count 
on  him  to  keep  his  word  in  a  deal.  He's  no  hypocrite. 
Lots  of  folks  believe  as  he  does,  but  are  afraid  to 
own  it;  he  stands  his  ground  and  tells  them  all 
exactly  what  he  thinks,  and  says  they  can  lump 
it." 

They  had  been  walking  side  by  side  across  the 
grass,  and  had  reached  the  point  where  their  ways 
parted.  He  was  turning  homeward,  when  she  ad- 
vanced impulsively  and  touched  him  almost  timidly 
on  the  arm.  Her  pretty  red  lip  was  quivering 
and  her  hand  shook  visibly. 

"I  don't  care  what  uncle  says — or  what  any  one 
says.  I  believe  there  is  a  God,  and  I  believe  He 
is  good,  and  I  am  going  to  pray  to  Him  to  make  you 
have  faith." 

There  were  incipient  tears  in  her  eyes,  and,  as  if 
to  avoid  his  wondering  stare,  she  lowered  her  head 
suddenly  and  walked  away. 

At  the  front  gate  his  father  stood  waiting  for 
him,  a  mild  look  of  excitement  in  his  weary  eyes. 
"Heard  the  news?"  he  inquired. 

"No;    what's  happened?"  Paul  answered. 

"Enough,  I  reckon,  to  them  that's  hit  by  it," 
Ralph  returned.  "Old  Alf  Rose,  over  t'other  side 
o'  the  mountain,  was  found  dead  in  a  thicket  close 

SI 


Paul     Rundel 

to  his  house.     He  was  beat  bad,  his  skull  was  all 
mashed  in." 

"Who  did  it?"  Paul  asked. 

"They  don't  know  for  sure;  but  he  was  robbed 
of  all  he  had  in  his  pockets,  an'  his  hat  was  gone. 
A  nigger,  Pete  Watson,  is  missin',  and  they  say  the 
sheriff  and  a  passle  o'  deputies,  an'  half  the  county, 
are  out  scourin'  the  woods  for  'im.  Ef  they  ketch 
'im  thar  '11  be  a  lynchin'  as  sure  as  preachin'." 
'  A  voice  now  came  from  the  farm-house.  It  was 
Amanda  leaning  out  of  the  kitchen  window. 

"Come  on  in  an'  git  yore  dinner,"  she  cried. 
"Don't  Hsten  to  that  stuff  or  you  won't  eat  a  bite. 
Yore  pa's  chatter  has  already  turned  my  stomach 
inside  out." 

"That's  the  woman  of  it,"  Ralph  sniffed,  wearily. 
"They  both  begged  an'  begged  for  particulars,  an* 
wormed  every  bit  they  could  out  o'  me,  an'  now 
they  talk  about  its  gaggin'  em." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THAT  evening,  after  Hoag  had  put  his  sister  and 
niece  into  his  phaeton,  and  told  Cato,  the  negro 
driver,  to  take  them  to  Grayson,  he  went  back  to 
the  veranda  where  his  wife  and  her  mother,  Mrs. 
Sarah  Tilton,  stood  waving  their  handkerchiefs  at 
the  departing  guests.  Mrs.  Hoag  was  a  thin,  wan- 
faced  woman  of  questionable  age  and  health.  In 
honor  of  the  visitors  she  wore  her  best  black-silk 
gown,  and  its  stiff,  rigid  folds  and  white-lace  collar 
gave  her  a  prim  and  annual-excursion  look.  There 
was  a  tired  expression  in  her  gray  eyes,  a  nervous 
twitching  of  her  needle-pricked  fingers.  Her  mother 
was  of  a  lustier  type,  having  a  goodly  allotment  of 
flesh,  plenty  of  blood  and  activity  of  limb  and  brain, 
and  a  tongue  which  occupied  itself  on  every  possible 
occasion  with  equal  loquacity  in  small  or  large 
affairs. 

"I  couldn't  help  from  thinkin'  what  an  awful 
time  we'd  have  had,"  she  was  saying  to  her  daughter, 
"if  they  had  stayed  here  this  summer  instead  of  at 
the  hotel.  I  can  stand  it  for  a  day  or  two,  but  three 
months  on  a  stretch  would  lay  me  stark  and  stiff  in 
my  grave.  Did  you  ever  in  all  yore  bom  days  see 
such  finicky  ways?  They  nibbled  at  the  lettuce 
like  tame  rabbits  eatin'  cabbage-leaves,  and  wiped 
their  lips  or  fingers  every  minute,  whether  they  got 
grease  on  'cm  or  not,  and  then  their  prissy  talk! 
I  presume,  if  Harriet  said  presee-um  once  she  did 

53 


Paul     Rundel 

fully  a  dozen  times,  an'  I  didn't  know  any  more 
what  it  meant  than  if  she'd  been  talkin'  Choc- 
taw." 

"They  are  simply  not  used  to  our  country  ways," 
Mrs.  Hoag  sighed.  "I  don't  feel  like  they  are,  to 
say,  stuck  up.  I  think  they  was  just  tryin'  to  be 
easy  an'  natural-like." 

"Maybe  she'd  find  it  easier  to  go  back  to  the  way 
she  used  to  hve  before  her  pa  sent  'er  off  to  that  fine 
boardin'-school  in  Macon,"  Mrs.  Tilton  retorted,  with 
a  smile  that  froze  into  a  sort  of  grimace  of  satisfac- 
tion. "She  used  to  go  barefooted  here  in  the  moun- 
tains ;  she  was  a  regular  tomboy  that  wanted  to  climb 
every  tree  in  sight,  slide  down  every  bank,  and  wade 
in  every  mud-puddle  and  branch  anywheres  about. 
She  was  eternally  stuffin'  her  stomach  with  green 
apples,  raw  turnips,  an'  sweet  potatoes,  an'  smearin' 
her  face  with  'lasses  or  preserves.  She  laid  herself 
up  for  a  week  once  for  eatin'  a  lot  o'  pure  licorice 
an'  cinnamon-bark  that  she  found  in  the  drug-store 
her  uncle  used  to  keep  at  the  cross-roads." 

Hoag  sat  down  in  a  chair,  tilted  it  back  against 
the  wall,  and  cast  a  summarizing  glance  toward  his 
com,  wheat,  and  cotton  fields  beyond  the  brown 
roofs  of  the  long  sheds  and  warehouses  of  the  tan- 
nery at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  He  seldom  gave  the 
slightest  heed  to  the  current  observations  of  his  wife 
or  her  mother.  If  they  had  not  found  much  to 
say  about  the  visitors,  it  would  have  indicated  that 
they  were  unwell  and  needed  a  doctor,  and  of  course 
that  would  have  meant  money  out  of  his  pocket, 
which  was  a  matter  of  more  moment  than  the  most 
pernicious  gossip.  Hoag's  younger  son.  Jack,  a 
golden-haired  child  three  years  of  age,  toddled  round 

54 


Paul     R  u  n  d  c 1 

the  house  and  putting  his  chubby  hands  on  the  low- 
est of  the  veranda  steps,  glanced  up  at  his  father, 
and  smiled  and  cooed.  Hoag  leaned  forward,  crude 
tenderness  in  his  look  and  movement. 

"That's  right!"  he  cried,  gently,  and  he  held  his 
hands  out  encouragingly.  ' '  Crawl  up  to  daddy,  Jack. 
I  was  lookin'  for  you,  little  boy.  I  was  wonderin' 
where  you  was  at.  Got  scared  o'  the  fine  town 
folks,  an'  hid  out,  didn't  you?" 

Slowly,  retarded  as  Jack  was  by  his  short  skirt, 
he  mounted  step  after  step,  constantly  applauded 
by  his  father,  till,  red  in  the  face  and  panting,  he 
reached  the  top  and  was  eagerly  received  into  the 
extended  arms. 

"Bully  boy!"  Hoag  cried.  "I  knew  you'd  stick 
to  it  and  never  say  die.  You  are  as  full  o'  pluck  as 
an  egg  is  of  meat."  And  the  planter  pressed  the 
bonny  head  against  his  breast  and  stroked  the  soft, 
curling  hair  with  his  big,  red  hand. 

Few  of  Hoag's  friends  knew  of  his  almost  motherly 
tenderness  and  fondness  for  his  child.  In  returning 
home  at  night,  even  if  it  was  very  late,  he  never 
would  go  to  bed  without  looking  into  his  wife's 
room  to  see  if  Jack  was  all  right.  And  every  morn- 
ing, before  rising,  he  would  call  the  child  to  him,  and 
the  two  would  wake^the  rest  of  the  family'^with  their 
romping  and  laughter.  Sometimes  Hoag  would  dress 
the  boy,  experiencing  a  delight  in  the  cltunsy  action 
which  he  could  not  have  analyzed.  His  devotion 
to  Jack  seemed  all  the  more  remarkable  for  his  in- 
different manner  toward  his  older  son,  Henry,  a 
lad  of  fifteen,  who  had  a  mischievous  disposition 
which  made  him  rather  unpopular  in  the  neighbor- 
hood.    Many  persons  thought  Henry  was  like  his 

55 


Paul      Rundel 

father  in  appearance,  though  quite  the  reverse  in 
the  habit  of  thrift  or  business  foresight.  Mrs.  Til- 
ton,  the  grandmother,  declared  that  the  boy  was 
being  driven  to  the  dogs  as  rapidly  as  could  be  pos- 
sible, for  he  had  never  known  the  meaning  of  pater- 
nal sympathy  or  advice,  and  never  been  made  to 
do  any  sort  of  work.  Be  that  as  it  might,  Henry 
was  duly  sworn  at  or  punished  by  Hoag  at  least 
once  a  week. 

The  phaeton  returned  from  the  village.  Cato 
drove  the  horses  into  the  stable-yard  and  put  them 
into  their  stalls,  whistling  as  he  fed  them  and  rubbed 
them  down.  The  twilight  was  thickening  over  the 
fields  and  meadows.  The  dew  was  falling.  The 
nearest  hills  were  no  longer  observable.  Jack,  still 
in  his  father's  arms  on  the  veranda,  was  asleep;  the 
touch  of  the  child's  breath  on  the  man's  cheek  was 
a  subtle,  fragrant  thing  that  conveyed  vague  de- 
light to  his  consciousness.  Henry  rode  up  to  the 
stable,  turned  his  horse  over  to  Cato,  and  came 
toward  the  house.  He  was,  indeed,  like  his  father 
in  shape,  build,  and  movement.  He  paused  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  glanced  indifferently  at  Hoag 
and  said: 

"I  passed  Sid  Trawley  back  on  the  mountain- 
road.  He  said,  tell  you  he  wanted  to  see  you  to-night 
without  fail;  he  said,  tell  you  not  to  leave  till  he 
got  here." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  Hoag  said,  with  a  steady,  in- 
terested stare  at  his  son,  who  now  stood  beside  him. 
"I'll  be  here." 

His  voice  waked  the  sleeping  child.  Jack  sat  up, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  then  put  a  little  hand  on  his 

56 


Paul     R  u  n  ci  e  1 

father's  face.     "Dack  hungry;   Dack  want  his  sup- 
per,"  he  lisped. 

Hoag- swung  him  gently  to  and  fro  like  a  woman 
rocking  an  infant  to  sleep.  "Hold  on!"  He  was 
speaking  to  Henry,  and  his  tone  was  harsh  and 
abrupt.     "Did  you  water  that  horse?" 

Henry  leaned  in  the  doorway,  idly  lashing  his 
legs  with  his  riding- whip.  "No;  the  branch  was  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  the  way.  Cato  will  lead 
him  to  the  well." 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  Hoag  growled. 
"You  didn't  even  tell  Cato  the  horse  hadn't  been 
watered.  He  would  let  him  stay  in  the  lot  all  night 
without  a  drop,  hot  as  he  is.  Go  water  'im  now. 
Go,  I  tell  you!  You  are  getting  so  triflin'  you  ain't 
fit  to  live." 

Henry  stared,  and  his  stare  kindled  into  a  resent- 
ful glare.  His  whip  hung  steadily  by  his  side.  It 
was  as  if  he  were  about  to  retort,  but  kept  silence. 

"Go  'tend  to  that  horse,"  Hoag  repeated,  "an' 
don't  you  ever  do  a  thing  like  that  again.  You  are 
none  too  good  to  do  work  o'  that  sort;  I  did  plenty 
of  it  at  your  age.  I  had  to  work  like  a  nigger  an' 
I'm  none  the  worse  for  it." 

Henry  stood  still.  He  had  his  father's  temper, 
and  it  was  being  roughly  handled.  Jack,  now  thor- 
oughly awake,  put  both  his  hands  on  his  father's 
face  and  stroked  his  cheeks  soothingly,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  storm  that  was  about  to  break.  Then,  slow- 
ly and  with  inarticulate  mutterings,  Henry  turned 
and  retraced  his  steps  down  the  path  to  the  stable. 
Hoag  leaned  over  till  Jack  had  to  clutch  the  lapels 
of  his  coat  to  keep  from  falling. 

"An'   don't   you   raise   a   row   with   that   nigger, 
5  57 


Paul     Rundel 

neither,"  Hoag  called  out.  "I  won't  have  it.  You 
are  not  boss  about  this  place." 

Henry  paused  in  the  path,  turned  a  defiant  face 
toward  his  father,  and  stood  still  for  several  seconds, 
then  slowly  went  on  to  the  stable. 

"Dack  want  his  supper,  daddy,"  Jack  murmured. 

"All  right,  baby,"  Hoag  said,  in  a  tone  of  blended 
anger  and  gentleness,  and  with  the  child  in  his 
arms  he  went  through  the  dark  hall  into  the  dining- 
room  adjoining  the  kitchen  in  the  rear  of  the  house. 
Here,  at  the  table  next  to  his  own  place,  he  put  Jack 
into  the  child's  high-chair,  and  sat  down  beside 
him,  his  massive  arm  and  hand  still  encircling  the 
tiny  shoulders. 

"Now,  make  Dilly  bring  Jack's  mush  an'  milk!" 
Hoag  said,  with  a  laugh.     "Call  'er — call  'er  loud!" 

"Dilly!"  Jack  obeyed.     "Oh,  Dilly!" 

"Louder;  she  didn't  hear  you."  Hoag  shook 
with  laughter,  and  patted  the  child  on  the  head 
encouragingly. 

"Dilly!    Oh,  Dilly!"  Jack  cried. 

"Oh,  I  hear  you,  young  marster, "  the  portly 
negress  laughed,  as  she  shuffled  into  the  room.  "I 
was  gittin'  yo'  mush  en  milk,  honey.  I  'clar',  'fo' 
de  Lawd  you  make  me  jump  out'n  my  skin,  I  was 
so  scared." 

"Where's  the  rest  o'  the  folks?"  Hoag  inquired, 
with  an  impatient  glance  toward  the  door. 

"Bofe  of  'em  say  dey  don't  want  er  bite  after 
eatin'  all  dat  watermelon  dis  evenin',"  the  cook 
answered.  "Miz  Hoag  say  she  gwine  ter  lie  down 
right  off,  kase  she  got  off  dat  hot  dress  en  feel  weak 
after  so  much  doin's  terday.  She  ain't  er  well 
*oman,  Marse  Hoag — she  ain't,  suh.     I  know,  kase 

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Paul     Rundel 

I  seed  er  lots  of  um  in  my  day  en  time.  She  hain't 
got  no  spirit,  suh;  en  when  'omen  git  dat  way  it's 
er  bad  sign  o'  what  may  come." 

Hoag  showed  no  interest  in  the  comment.  He 
reached  for  the  big  platter  of  cold  string-beans  and 
boiled  pork,  and  helped  himself  abundantly.  He 
poured  out  his  own  coffee,  and  drank  it  hot 
from  the  saucer  without  sugar  or  cream.  He 
used  both  hands  in  breaking  the  big,  oval-shaped 
pone  of  corn-bread.  He  enjoyed  his  food  as  a 
hungry  beast  might,  and  yet  he  paused  every  now 
and  then  to  feed  the  child  with  a  spoon  or  to  wipe 
the  mush  from  the  little  chin.  It  was  Jack's  droop- 
ing head  and  blinking  eyes  that  caused  Hoag  to 
hasten  through  the  meal.  He  took  the  child  to  the 
little  bed  in  its  mother's  room  and  put  it  down 
gently. 

"Go  to  sleep,"  he  said.     "Now  go  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  went  back  to  the  veranda  through  the  un- 
Hghted  hall,  and  stood  looking  across  the  lawn 
toward  the  gate.  There  was  no  moon ;  but  the  stars 
were  out,  and  cast  a  soft  radiance  over  the  undulat- 
ing landscape.  Along  the  steep  side  of  the  nearest 
mountain  forest  fires  in  irregular  lines  pierced  the 
thicker  darkness  of  the  distance,  and  their  blue 
smoke  drifted  in  lowering  wisps  over  the  level  fields. 

"Some'n's  surely  up,  if  Trawley  wants  to  see  me 
to-night,"  Hoag  mused.     "I  wonder  if  my  men — " 

He  saw  a  horse  and  rider  emerge  from  the  gloom 
down  the  road  leading  on  to  Grayson.  There  was 
no  sound  of  hoofs,  for  the  animal  was  moving  slowly, 
as  if  guided  with  caution.  Nearer  and  nearer  the 
horse  approached,  till  it  was  reined  in  at  the  barn- 
yard gate. 

"That's  him,"  Hoag  muttered,  and  with  a  furtive 
look  into  the  hall  behind  him  he  tiptoed  softly 
down  the  steps,  and  then,  his  feet  miiffled  by  the 
grass,  he  strode  briskly  down  to  the  gate.  As  he 
drew  near  the  horseman,  who  was  a  slender  young 
man  in  a  broad-brimmed  slouch  hat,  easy  shirt,  and 
wide  leather  belt,  and  with  a  heavy  blond  mustache, 
dismounted  and  leaned  on  the  top-rail  of  the  fence. 

' '  Hello,  Cap, ' '  was  his  greeting.  ' '  'Fraid  you  might 
not  be  at  home.  Henry  didn't  know  whether  you 
would  be  or  not,  but  I  come  on — wasn't  nothin* 
else  to  do.     The  klan  is  all  worked  up  in  big  excite- 

60 


Paul     Rundel 

ment.  They  didn't  want  to  move  without  your 
sanction;  but  if  you'd  been  away  we'd  'a'  had  to. 
Business  is  business.     This  job  has  to  go  through." 

"What's  up  now?"  Hoag  asked,  eagerly. 

"They've  caught  that  nigger  Pete  Watson." 

"Who  has— my  boys?" 

"No;    the  sheriff — Tom   Lawler  an'  three  o'  his 
deputies." 
,     "You  don't  say;   where?" 

"In  the  swamp,  in  the  river-bottom  just  beyond 
Higgins's  farm.  Ten  of  the  klan  happened  to  be 
waiting  at  Larkin's  store  when  Lawler  whizzed  by 
with  'em  in  a  two-hoss  hack." 

Hoag  swore;  his  voice  shook  with  excitement. 
"An'  you  fellers  didn't  try  to  head  'em  off,  or — " 

"Head  'em  off,  hell!  an'  them  with  three  cocked 
Winchesters  'cross  their  laps  an'  it  broad  daylight. 
Besides,  the  boys  said  you'd  be  mad — like  you 
have  been  every  time  they've  moved  a  peg  wdthout 
orders.  You  remember  how  you  cursed  an'  raved 
when — " 

"Well,  never  mind  that!"  Hoag  fumed.  "Where 
did  they  take  the  black  devil?" 

"To  jail  in  Grayson;  he's  under  lock  an'  key  all 
right.  We  followed,  and  saw  'im  put  in.  He's  the 
blue-gum  imp  that  killed  old  Rose.  Lawler  told 
some  o'  our  boys  that  he  hain't  owned  up  to  it  yet, 
but  he's  guilty.  Sam  and  Alec  Rose  are  crazy — 
would  'a'  gone  right  in  the  jail  an'  shot  everything  in 
sight  if  we  all  hadn't  promised  'em  you'd  call  out 
the  klan  an'  take  action  at  once." 

"I  see,  I  see."  Hoag's  head  rose  and  fell  like 
a  buoy  on  a  wave  of  self-satisfaction.  "The  boys 
are  right.     They  know  nothin*  can  be  done  in  any 

6i 


Paul     Rundel 

sort  o'  decent  order  without  a  leader.  You  know 
yourself,  Sid,  that  every  time  they've  gone  on  their 
own  hook  they've  had  trouble,  an'  fetched  down 
public  criticism." 

"We  all  know  that  well  enough,  Cap,"  Trawley 
said,  "an'  the  last  one  of  the  gang  is  dependent 
on  you.  It  is  wonderful  how  they  stick  to  you,  an' 
rely  on  yore  judgment.  But,  say,  we  hain't  got  a 
minute  to  lose.  The  thing  is  primed  an'  cocked. 
We  kin  pass  the  word  along  an'  have  every  man  out 
by  twelve  o'clock.  I  just  need  your  sanction;  that's 
all  I'm  here  for." 

In  the  starlight  the  lines,  protuberances,  and  angles 
of  Hoag's  face  stood  out  as  clearly  as  if  they  had  been 
carved  from  stone.  He  stroked  his  mustache,  lips, 
and  chin;  he  drew  himself  erect  arid  threw  his 
shoulders  back  with  a  sort  of  military  precision. 
He  felt  himself  to  be  a  pivot  upon  which  much 
turned,  and  he  enjoyed  the  moment. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "let  me  study  a  minute.     I — " 

"Study  hell!     Look  here,  Jim  Hoag — " 

"Stop!"  Hoag  broke  in  sternly,  and  he  leaned 
on  the  fence  and  glared  at  Trawley.  "You  know 
you  are  breakin'  niles — you  know  the  last  one  of 
you  has  sworn  never  to  speak  my  name  at  a  time 
like  this.  I  was  to  be  called  'Captain,'  an'  nothin' 
else;  but  here  you  go  blurtin'  out  my  name.  There 
is  no  tellin'  when  somebody  may  be  listenin'." 

"Excuse  me,  Cap,  you  are  dead  right.  I  was 
wrong;  it  was  a  slip  o'  the  Hp.  I  won't  let  it  hap- 
pen again," 

Hoag's  anger  was  observable  even  in  the  dim  light. 
It  trembled  in  his  tone  and  flashed  in  his  eyes. 

"Beggin'  pardon  don't  rectify  a  mistake  like  that 

62 


Paul      Rundel 

when  the  damage  is  done,"  he  muttered.  "You 
fellers  ain't  takin'  any  risk.  I'd  be  the  one  to  hold 
the  bag  if  the  authorities  got  onto  us.  They  would 
nab  the  leader  first." 

"You  are  too  shaky  and  suspicious,"  the  other 
retorted,  in  sanguine  contempt  of  caution.  "We 
hain't  got  a  man  but  would  die  ruther  than  turn 
traitor,  an'  thar  ain't  no  court  or  jury  that  could 
faze  us.  As  you  said  in  yore  speech  at  the  last 
regular  meetin',  we  are  a  law  unto  ourselves.  This 
is  a  white  man's  country,  Cap,  an'  we  ain't  goin' 
to  let  a  few  lazy  niggers  nm  it." 

"The  boys  sort  o'  hked  that  speech,  didn't  they?" 
Hoag's  voice  ran  smooth  again. 

"It  was  a  corker,  an'  tickled  'em  all,"  Trawley 
smiled.  "They  will  put  you  in  the  legislature  by  a 
big  vote  whenever  you  say  the  word." 

"I  don't  want  it — I  ain't  that  sort,"  Hoag  said, 
grandiloquently.  "I'm  satisfied  if  I  can  help  a  lit- 
tle here  at  home — sorter  hold  you  boys  together  an' 
make  you  cautious.  A  thing  like  this  to-night  has 
to  be  managed  in  a  cool-headed  way  that  will  con- 
vince the  public  that  there  is  a  power  that  can  be  re- 
lied on  outside  o'  the  tardy  one  that  costs  taxpayers 
so  much  to  keep  up.  It  would  ticlde  a  black  whelp 
like  Pete  Watson  to  be  tried  at  our  expense.  He'd 
love  the  best  in  the  world  to  set  up  in  court  an' 
be  looked  at  as  some'n  out  o'  the  general  run,  an' 
incite  others  o'  his  stripe  to  go  an'  kill  helpless  white 
men  an'  insult  white  women.  The  rope,  the  torch, 
an'  our  spooky  garb  an'  masks  are  the  only  things 
niggers  are  afraid  of." 

"You  think  that  is  it,  do  you?"  Trawley  said, 
with  a  low,  pleased  laugh. 

63 


Paul     Rundel 

"More'n  anything  else,"  affirmed  Hoag,  "along 
with  our  swift  action.  Say,  I've  been  thinkin'  over 
some'n  Sid.  You  said  when  you  fust  rid  up  that 
the  klan  won't  act  without  a  leader,  an'  my  business 
sometimes  calls  me  off  to  Atlanta  or  Augusta — now 
it  is  important,  in  case  I'm  away  at  any  time,  to 
have  some  sort  o'  head,  an'  I've  been  thinkin'  that, 
as  you  are  sech  an  active  member,  you  ought  to  be 
made  my  lieutenant — " 

"You  don't  mean  that,  do  you.  Cap — you  don't 
surely — "  Trawley's  voice  seemed  submerged  in  a 
flood  of  agreeable  surprise. 

"I  do,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  propose  it  at  the  next  full 
meetin',  I  want  a  young  man  like  you  that  I  can 
confer  with  now  and  then  an'  chat  over  matters. 
A  feller  can't  always  git  at  a  big  body  like  ours 
by  hisself,  an'  you  seem  to  be  better  fitted  to  the 
office  than  any  other  member." 

"I'm  much  obliged,  Cap."  Trawley  beamed,  and 
his  voice  was  round  and  full.  "I'd  like  to  stand  in 
with  you  an'  I'll  do  my  best.  I  promise  you  that. 
The  whole  thing  is  fun  to  me." 

"You've  been  more  help  to  me  already  than  any- 
body else,"  Hoag  said,  "and  I'm  goin'  to  propose 
yore  name  an'  see  that  it  goes  through.  Now,  we 
haven't  got  any  time  to  lose  in  this  job  to-night. 
Send  the  word  along  the  line,  Tell  all  hands  to 
meet  at  Maxwell's  cove  by  eleven  o'clock — that 
will  give  us  plenty  o'  time  to  git  things  in  shape." 

The  dawn  of  the  following  day  was  on  the  point 
of  breaking  when  Henry  Hoag  crossed  the  garden 
behind  the  farm-house,  stealthily  unlocked  the  front 
doo**,  and  crept  up  the  stairs  to  his  room.     He  had 

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Paul     Rundel 

been  out  "skylarking"  with  some  of  his  friends, 
and  did  not  want  his  parents  to  know  the  hour  of 
his  return  home.  He  did  not  light  the  candle  on 
his  bureau,  but  proceeded  to  undress  in  the  dark. 
Suddenly  he  paused,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed  removing  his  shoes,  and  listened.  It  was  a  soft 
footfall  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  the  gentle 
turning  of  a  key  in  the  lock  of  the  door,  the  creak- 
ing of  the  hinges,  followed  by  the  clicking  of  the 
latch  as  the  door  was  closed.  A  moment  later  a 
clumsy  tread  slurred  along  the  lower  corridor  to 
Hoag's  room. 

Henry  chuckled.  "Got  in  by  the  skin  of  my 
teeth,"  he  said.  "If  he  knew  I  watched  that  thing 
from  start  to  finish  he'd  beat  me  'in  an  inch  o'  my 
life.  He  tried  to  change  his  voice,  but  he  was  too 
excited  to  hide  it.  Gee !  didn't  that  poor  nigger  beg? 
Ugh,  I'm  afraid  I'll  see  'im  in  my  sleep,  and  hear 
that  last  gurgle." 

Henry  cautiously  lowered  a  shoe  to  the  floor  and 
sat  still  for  a  moment.  "Poor  old  Pete!"  he  mused. 
"He  swore  he  didn't  do  it,  and  somehow  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  wasn't  lyin'.  I'd  have  turned  him 
loose  and  risked  it.     Poor  fellow!     Poor  fellow!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOAG  was  in  a  reflective  mood  as  he  rode  along 
his  field-road  in  the  crisp  morning  air.  The 
sockets  of  his  eyes  were  puffed  out,  and  he  looked 
like  a  man  who  had  lost  much  sleep,  and  was  braced 
up  for  the  duties  of  the  day  by  drink.  Within 
certain  material  limits  he  was  satisfied  with  him- 
self. The  dew  seemed  to  have  added  succulence  to 
his  fat  corn-stalks  and  sugar-cane;  his  wheat  and 
cotton  were  in  prime  condition,  especially  the  lat- 
ter, of  which  his  judgment  had  prornpted  an  un- 
usually large  planting,  and  according  to  the  market 
reports  the  staple  would  bring  a  fine  price. 

The  affair  of  the  preceding  night  had  gone  off 
with  quiet,  order,  and  dignity.  His  followers  had 
listened  to  his  usual  speech  with  respect  and  close 
attention,  and  he  was  sure  he  had  never  spoken 
better.  His  threat  that  if  his  wishes  were  disobeyed 
in  the  slightest  he  would  renounce  the  leadership 
had  had  the  desired  effect  of  proving  that  he  was 
not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with.  He  told  them  he  was 
giving  his  valuable  time  to  the  office,  and  had  held 
himself  in  duty  bound  to  answer  every  call,  and 
would  continue  to  do  so  as  long  as  they  realized  the 
importance  of  his  advice  and  services. 

As  he  rode  into  Grayson  he  saw  the  sheriff  and 
Budd  Tibbs,  the  village  marshal,  on  a  one-horse 
dray,  followed  by  a  motley  group  of  men,  women, 
and  children  afoot,  and  Hoag  knew  that  they  were 

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Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

bound  for  the  spot  where  the  body  of  the  lynched 
man  was  still  hanging.  The  sheriff  would  cut  the 
rope,  an  inquest  would  be  held,  and  the  corpse  would 
be  taken  away  for  burial.  On  the  street-corners  at 
the  Square  stood  groups  of  storekeepers  without 
their  hats  and  coats,  blandly  gazing  after  the  dray 
and  officers.  The  thought  came  to  Hoag  that  some 
of  the  men  on  the  street  might  wonder  why  he  did 
not  stop  and  chat  about  the  matter,  as  would  be 
natural  for  an  ordinary  citizen  to  do,  who,  living 
out  of  the  village,  might  only  just  have  heard  of 
the  happening;  but  Hoag  was  not  in  the  mood  for 
the  adroit  part  he  would  have  to  play.  His  brain 
felt  heavy  and  his  thoughts  were  sluggish.  The 
sight  of  the  grave  faces  stirred  a  vague,  unaccount- 
able discontent  within  him,  and  he  urged  his  horse 
to  move  faster.  Suddenly  the  crude  sign  of  a  boot 
and  shoe  painted  on  a  swinging  board  over  the  door 
of  Silas  Tye's  shop  caught  his  attention,  and  re- 
minded him  of  something  he  wanted  to  say  to  the 
cobbler,  so  he  dismounted  at  the  door,  hitched  his 
horse  to  a  post  in  front,  and  went  into  the  shop. 

Silas  was  at  work  putting  a  half-sole  on  a  shoe 
which  he  held  tightly  clamped  between  his  knees, 
and  looked  up  over  his  murky  spectacles  and  nodded. 

"Good  momin'.  Brother  Hoag,"  he  said.  "Some'n 
I  kin  do  for  you?" 

"Not  at  present.  Uncle  Si."  Hoag  sat  down  in  a 
chair,  thrust  his  hand  into  his  hip-pocket,  and  tak- 
ing out  a  piece  of  plug-tobacco,  bit  off  the  comer 
and  rolled  it  about  in  his  mouth.  "No,  I  hain't 
got  no  work  for  you  to-day.  In  fact,  I  come  to 
sponge  on  you — to  see  if  you  can't  give  me  a  piece 
o'  business  advice.     They  say  every  man  to  his  line, 

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Paul     Rundel 

an'  I  reckon  you  know  as  much  about  ready-made 
shoes  as  anybody  else  at  Grayson." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  don't  know  much  about 
manufactured  stuff."  Silas  shook  his  bald  head 
gently.  "I  kin  tell  good  leather  by  the  feel,  look, 
an'  smell  of  it;  but  mendin'  has  got  to  be  my  chief 
work  now,  an'  mendin'  shoddy  goods  at  that.  I 
kin  make  as  good  a  boot  as  you  or  any  other  man 
would  wear,  but  not  at  the  machine-made  price. 
A  pair  o'  my  boots  will  outwear  any  three  from  a 
box  sold  over  a  counter,  but  nobody  round  here  will 
believe  it." 

"I  don't  doubt  it — I  don't  doubt  it  for  a  minute," 
Hoag  agreed,  "and  this  is  what  I  want  to  consult 
you  about.  I  want  your  opinion.  You  know  I've 
got  that  tannery,  and  I  sometimes  tan  bigger 
quantities  of  hides.  Uncle  Si,  than  I  am  willin'  to 
let  go  at  the  average  price  offered  in  Atlanta  by  the 
jobbers.  So  you  see,  in  tumin'  it  over  in  my  mind, 
it  struck  me  all  at  once  that  I  might  put  up  a  little 
factory  on  my  place  for  makin'  plain  shoes  by 
machinery,  an'  in  that  way  work  off  surplus  stock, 
increase  my  output  of  leather,  and  make  the  middle- 
man's profit.  If  you  will  look  out  on  the  Square  any 
day  you'll  see  it  perfectly  black  with  idle  niggers, 
an'  I  could  put  some  of  'em  to  work,  an' — " 

The  shoemaker  glanced  up  and  smiled  faintly. 
"I  reckon  you  won't  see  many  in  sight  this  momin'," 
he  sighed,  as  he  resumed  his  work.  "The  pore  devils 
are  scared  out  o'  their  senses  by  that  thing  last 
night.     It's  awful,  awful!" 

There  was  a  pause.  Hoag's  eyelashes  fluttered. 
"Yes,  yes,  I  reckon  so,"  he  said.  "I  was  goin'  on 
to  say — " 

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Paul      Rundel 

But  some  sound  in  the  street  had  caught  Tye's 
attention  and,  forgetful  of  his  customer,  he  rose  and 
stood  at  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  wrinkles  on 
his  brow  and  about  his  kindly  eyes  were  drawn  and 
deepened  as  he  peered  over  the  brass  rims  of  his 
glasses.  Hoag  heard  him  sigh  again,  and  saw  him 
rubbing  the  sole  of  the  shoe  absent-mindedly. 

"What's  goin'  on?"  the  tanner  asked,  without 
moving  from  his  chair. 

"It's  that  poor  nigger  Pete  Watson's  wife  an' 
daughters,"  was  the  answer.  "They've  come  to 
claim  the  body — Dick  Morgan  is  showin'  'em  which 
way  to  go.  Lord,  Lord,  they  do  look  pitiful !  They 
ain't  even  cryin' — niggers  seldom  do  at  sech  a  time. 
Looks  like  they  won't  shed  tears  before  the  whites 
for  fear  it  will  make  'em  mad.  They  learnt  who 
the'r  masters  was  before  the  war,  an'  they  ain't  over 
it.  I  knowed  Pete  Watson — I've  mended  shoes  for 
'im.  He  was  always  a  civil  nigger,  an'  clever  enough. 
I've  had  talks  with  'im,  an'  I've  been  astonished  to 
hear  what  sensible  ideas  he  had.  He  appeared  to 
me  to  be  a  Christian — a  Christian  that  understood 
what  the  Lord  really  meant  when  he  was  here  on 
earth,  an'  that's  rare  even  among  the  whites." 

Silas  came  back  to  his  bench  and  slowly  sat  down. 
"Lord,  Lord,  what  a  pity,  what  a  pity!"  he  con- 
tinued to  mutter. 

"They  say  he  was  undoubtedly  guilty."  Hoag 
felt  his  anger  rising,  and  yet  he  realized  that  he 
must  restrain  himself.  "That  is  the  current  report, 
anyway,"  he  said. 

"It  always  is  the  report,"  Silas  said.  "Even  if 
a  mistake  was  made  the  public  would  never  know 
it.     The  gang  that  did  the  work  would  see  to  that." 

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Paul      Rundel 

"We  are  gittin*  away  from  what  we  was  talkin' 
about,"  Hoag  said.  "I  was  asking  you  what  you 
thought  about  me  startin'  a  Httle  shoe-plant?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  pay,"  Silas  said,  deliber- 
ately. "They  make  shoes  a  sight  cheaper  in  the 
big  works  up  North  than  you  possibly  could  down 
here  in  the  backwoods  with  untrained  help.  It's 
been  tried,  without  success,  several  times  here  an* 
thar.  The  Yankees  understand  the  knack  o*  split- 
tin'  leather  an'  usin'  both  halves,  an'  even  the 
middle,  for  different  purposes.  You  can't  make 
shoes  right  an'  put  in  good  stock  at  the  prices  North- 
em  made-up  goods  fetch."  Silas  selected  a  woman's 
shoe  from  a  pile  on  the  floor,  and  with  his  blackened 
thumb  pried  the  worn  bottom  open.  "Look  at  that 
— stiiffed  with  leather  shavin's  an'  glue!  That's 
what  you'd  have  to  contend  with.  When  folks  go 
to  buy  they  go  by  looks,  not  quality.  Then  yore 
help  would  fall  down  on  you.  You  can't  turn  easy- 
goin',  jolly  singin'  an'  dancin'  black  boys  an'  gals 
into  drudgin'  machines  all  at  once.  They  come  from 
a  drowsy,  savage  race  an'  a  hot  climate,  an'  you  can't 
make  'em  over  in  a  day.  La,  la — "  The  shoe- 
maker bent  sideways  to  look  out  of  the  doorway 
toward  the  spot  where  the  lynching  had  occurred. 
"That's  why  that  thing  seems  so  pitiful." 

Hoag  felt  his  ire  rising,  but  he  curbed  himself. 

"They  say — ^folks  say,  I'm  told — that  the  nigger 
was  guilty,"  he  muttered.  "When  the  neighbors  first 
went  to  his  house  they  foimd  the  old  hat  Rose  had 
on  when  he  was  murdered.  That  fact  may  not  be 
generally  known." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Silas  replied f  "but  if  that's  all  the 
mob  acted  on  they  acted  on  powerful  flimsy  evidence. 

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Paul      Rundel 

I've  heard  men  say  so  this  mornin' — good  lawyers 
right  here  in  town.  Besides,  I  myself  heard — why, 
a  man  set  right  whar  you  arc  a-settin'  at  this  minute. 
Brother  Hoag,  an'  told  me  not  ten  minutes  ago  that 
he  seed  Pete  with  his  own  eyes  pick  up  the  hat  on 
the  side  o'  the  road  long  after  the  killin'.  Now,  you 
see,  the  fact  that  Pete  had  Rose's  hat  wouldn't 
actually  condemn  'im  in  a  court  of  law,  while  it 
would  be  proof  enough  for  a  drunken  gang  o'  hot- 
headed nigger-haters.  For  all  we  know,  somebody 
else  done  the  killin'  an'  thro  wed  the  hat  down.  I 
myself  don't  believe  that  even  a  fool  nigger  would  kill 
a  man  an'  tote  his  hat  along  a  public  road  for  every- 
body to  see,  an'  take  it  home  an'  give  it  to  one  o' 
his  boys  to  wear.     It  don't  stand  to  reason." 

A  grim  look  of  blended  anger  and  chagrin  had  set- 
tled on  Hoag's  face.  He  crossed  his  legs  and  tapped 
the  heel  of  his  boot  with  the  butt  of  his  riding- 
whip. 

"I'm  not  takm'  up  for  the — the  men  that  did 
the  job,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  idea  who  they  are 
or  whar  they  come  from — all  abouts  in  the  moun- 
tains, I  reckon;  but  any  man  with  an  eye  in  his 
head  can  see  that  the  niggers  in  this  coimtry  are 
gettin'  out  of  all  bounds.  Thar  is  not  a  day  that 
some  white  woman  ain't  mistreated  or  scared  out 
o'  her  senses.  I  wouldn't  trust  a  nigger  an  inch. 
I've  seed  the  best  of  'em — psalm-singers  an'  exhorters 
in  meetin' — turn  right  round  an'  commit  acts  that 
only  hell  itself  could  devise." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Silas  sighed;  "an'  in  my  opin- 
ion that's  exactly  why  we  need  law — an'  good  law  at 
that.  Niggers  are  natural  imitators  of  the  whites; 
they  see  lawlessness,  an'  they  git  lawless.     Mob- 

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Paul      Run  del 

law  stirs  up  the  worst  that's  in  'em.  They  see  in- 
justice done — the  wrong  man  lynched,  for  instance — 
an'  they  brood  over  it  in  secret  an'  want  to  hit  back, 
an'  they  do  it  the  first  chance.  I  don't  see  you  at 
meetin'  often,  Brother  Hoag,  an'  you  may  not  de- 
pend much  on  Scripture — many  busy  men  don't, 
these  days;  but  it  is  my  chief  guide,  an'  our  Lord 
an'  Master  laid  down  rules  of  conduct  that  if  they 
was  half  obeyed  thar  wouldn't  be  a  speck  o'  strife 
betwixt  white  an'  black.  Lovin'  the  humblest — 
'the  least  of  these,'  as  our  Saviour  put  it — an' 
turnin'  t'other  cheek  as  a  daily  practice  wouldn't 
leave  an  openin'  for  such  as  that  last  night." 

Silas  put  some  wooden  pegs  into  his  mouth,  and 
began  to  make  holes  in  the  shoe-bottom  with  an 
awl  and  a  flat-headed  hammer.  Hoag  glared  stead- 
ily at  the  bald  pate  for  a  moment,  and  then,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  he  stood  up.  There  was  a  red 
spot  on  each  of  his  cheeks,  a  sullen,  thwarted  sort 
of  flare  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  be  goin',"  he  said,  winding 
his  pliant  whip  around  his  hand.  "I  see  you  won't 
help  me  build  that  shoe-factory.  I  may  do  it,  an' 
I  may  not.  Thar  is  another  deal  I  may  put  the 
money  in,  but  that's  plumb  out  o'  your  line.  So 
long." 

The  cobbler  raised  his  eyes  and  muttered  an  in- 
articulate something  from  his  peg-filled  mouth,  and 
watched  Hoag  as  he  went  out  and  unhitched  his 
horse. 

"He's  one  o'  the  big  men  o'  the  county,"  Silas 
mused,  "an'  yet  he  don't  seem  to  have  the  slightest 
inkling  o'  what  rail  justice  means.  I  reckon  the 
almighty  dollar  has  plumb  blinded  him.    He  wasn't 

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Paul      R  u  n  d  e 1 

any  more  concerned  with  what  I  told  'im  about 
that  pore  darky  than  if  I'd  been  talkin'  about  a 
dead  hog.  Well,  they  say  he's  give  up  believin'  in 
a  God  or  a  future  life,  an'  if  he  has  he's  livin'  up  to 
his  lights,  or  down  to  'em — I  don't  know  which." 
6 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  morbid  ill-humor,  and  vaguely  discontented 
under  an  intangible  something  that  seemed  to 
press  upon  him  from  external  sources,  Hoag  went 
to  his  horse.  At  another  time  the  conviction  that 
a  mere  cobbler  had  convinced  him  of  his  lack  of 
judgment  in  regard  to  a  business  venture  would 
have  irritated  him  beyond  expression;  but,  strange 
to  say,  Silas  had  said  other  things  that  were  even 
more  objectionable,  and  Hoag  had  been  obliged  to 
sit  and  listen,  and  by  his  silence  leave  the  impres- 
sion on  the  stupid  lout  that  he  was  right.  The  fellow 
was  no  doubt  talking  that  way  to  others,  and  others 
were  talking  to  him  in  the  same  vein. 

Diagonally  across  the  street  was  the  front  en- 
trance to  a  big  livery-stable.  It  had  a  high  board 
front,  on  which  was  painted  a  horse  in  a  racing-gig 
and  a  driver  in  a  jockey's  cap  leaning  forward  whip 
in  hand,  feet  firmly  braced.  Beneath  the  picture 
were  the  words: 

"TRAWLEY'S   FEED    AND    SALE   STABLES" 

And  thither  Hoag  led  his  horse.  On  the  edge  of 
the  sidewalk  a  negro  was  washing  the  dust  from  a 
new  buggy  with  a  sponge  and  a  pail  of  water.  An- 
other negro  close  by  was  trimming  the  mane  and 
tail  of  a  horse  with  a  big  pair  of  clicking  shears. 
They  had  been  conversing  in  low,  earnest  tones,  but 

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Paul     Rundel 

they  ceased  and  applied  themselves  vigorously  to 
work  as  the  tanner  approached. 

"Hold  my  hoss,"  he  said  to  the  man  with  the 
pail.     "Is  Sid  about?" 

"Back  inside,  boss."  The  negro  touched  his  hat, 
swept  a  broad,  flat  foot  backward,  and  took  the 
bridle.  "Leastwise,  he  was,  suh,  des  er  minute 
ergo.  He  was  talkin'  ter  er  gipsy  dat  had  er  muel 
ter  swap.  Dey  didn't  come  ter  no  trade,  dough. 
I  know,  kase  de  gipsy  rid  his  muel  off  up  de  street." 

Hoag  turned  into  the  stable,  which  was  a  spacious 
structure  with  wide  doors  at  each  end,  bare,  brown 
rafters  overhead,  and  a  storm-shattered  shingle 
roof,  which  in  places  let  in  rifts  of  sunshine  and 
exposed  bits  of  sky.  On  either  side  of  a  wide  pas- 
sage, from  end  to  end  of  the  building,  were  stalls, 
some  occupied  by  horses,  and  all  smelling  of  manure 
and  musty  hay.  There  was  a  sound  of  the  champing 
of  feeding  animals,  the  swishing  of  tails,  for  the  flies 
were  plentiful,  and  the  satisfied  accompaniment  of 
pawing  hoofs  on  the  soggy  ground. 

In  the  rear  doorway  stood  a  man  who  had  just 
stepped  into  view  from  the  yard  in  the  rear.  It  was 
Trawley.  He  had  a  stick  of  soft  pine  in  his  hand, 
and  was  nervously  whittling  with  a  big  pocket- 
knife,  his  broad,  slouch  hat  pushed  back  on  his  head 
and  turned  up  in  froi^r  Sid  was  quite  as  well  known 
for  the  good  stable  he  ran  as  for  his  fighting  tenden- 
cies, the  quick  use  of  a  "gun,"  and  general  habits 
of  brave  recklessness. 

Toward  him,  with  a  forced  smile  of  companion- 
ship, Hoag  walked,  cautiously  looking  into  the  stalls 
as  he  passed. 

"They  are  all  in  front,"  Trawley  said,  reassuring- 

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Paul     Rundel 

ly  when  they  met;  "but  we  don't  want  to  be  seen 
confabbin'  together,  to-day  of  all  days."  He  jerked 
his  knife  toward  the  yard.  "Come  out  here  whar 
it's  quiet." 

With  a  steady  stare  of  awakening  wonder  over 
Sid's  unwonted  caution  Hoag  followed,  first  into 
the  open  glare  of  the  sun  and  then  under  the  roof 
of  a  wagon-shed. 

"If  you  hadn't  come  in,  I  was  goin'  to  ride  out 
to  see  you,"  Trawley  said,  with  a  frown  which  lay 
heavily  on  his  sharp-cut  features.  ' '  I  reckon  you've 
heard — bad  news  travels  fast." 

"News?  I  hain't  heard  nothin'."  Hoag  held  the 
butt  of  his  whip  against  his  lower  lip  and  stared 
questioningly.     "Say,  what's  up?" 

"Enough,  God  knows — hell's  to  pay.  We've  got 
to  git  together  right  away  an'  take  action  o'  some 
sort.     Say — wait   a  minute." 

The  negro  who  had  been  cleaning  the  buggy  was 
drawing  it  through  the  stable  toward  them,  and  his 
master  strode  angrily  to  the  rear  door. 

"Leave  that  buggy  thar,"  he  ordered,  "an'  go 
back  to  the  front  an'  stay  till  I  come." 

With  a  blank  look  of  astonishment  the  negro 
dropped  the  tongue  of  the  buggy,  and  turned  back 
to  the  front.  Hoag  heard  Trawley  softly  grumbling 
as  he  came  back. 

"I'll  break  a  board  over  that  nigger's  head  one  o' 
these  days,"  he  growled.  "He  was  try  in'  to  get 
back  here  to  see  what  me'n  you  are  up  to." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  not — I  reckon  not,"  Hoag  said,  his 
gaze  anxiously  fixed  on  Trawley 's  face.  "Just  now 
you  said  somethin'  about  news." 

"You'll  think  it's  news  when  you  hear  it,"  the 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

stable-man  vsaid,  taking  off  his  hat  and  mopping  his 
hot  brow  with  a  soiled  handkerchief.  "Cap,  the 
last  thing  me  or  you  could  possibly  expect  has  done 
happened.  The  sherifi  of  Canton  County  has  just 
telegraphed  that  he's  got  the  man  that  killed  old 
Rose." 

-  "Got  the  man  that— bosh!  Why  wc—''  The 
words  fell  from  Hoag's  lips  like  bits  of  metal,  and 
he  broke  off  with  a  low  oath.  For  a  moment  neither 
he  nor  Trawley  spoke.  Hoag  laughed  defiantly, 
mechanically,  and  without  mirth.  Then  his  face 
glowed  faintly.  "Oh,  I  see,  the  sheriff  over  thar 
don't  know  what — what  took  place  here  last  night. 
He's  nabbed  some  trifiin'  nigger  that  had  a  sus- 
picious look,  an'  is  holdin'  'im  for — " 

"'Twasn't  no  nigger,"  Trawley  said.  "It  is  a 
tramp — a  white  man  that  the  sheriff  says  passed 
Rose's  farm  yesterday  afoot." 

"Well,  what  o'  that?"  Hoag  showed  irritability. 
"We'll  have  to  wire  the  sheriff  to  turn  the  man 
loose — that's  all — that's  all!" 

"If  that  was  all,  it  would  be  easy;  but  it  ain't,  by 
a  long  shot,"  Trawley  sniffed.  "The  tramp  had 
Rose's  old  silver  watch  with  his  name  cut  on  it!" 

"You  mean — "  But  Hoag  knew  well  what  he 
meant,  and  was  in  no  mood  for  idle  remarks.  When 
thwarted  in  anything,  justly  or  unjustly,  he  became 
angry;  he  felt  his  rage  rising  now  over  his  sheer 
inability  to  cope  with  a  situation  which  certainly 
demanded  all  his  poise,  all  his  mental  forces. 

"We  are  simply  in  a  hole,"  Trawley  muttered, 
still  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow.  "In  a  hole, 
an'  a  deep  one  at  that." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"     Hoag  was  glaring 

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Paul     Run  del 

into  the  eyes  of  his  companion,  as  a  man  in  dense 
darkness  trying  to  see. 

"Because  we  are,"  Trawley  answered.  "The 
sheriff  over  thar  in  Canton  won't  want  to  admit  he's 
made  a  mistake  with  the  proof  he  holds.  He'll  bring 
his  man  to  trial  an'  the  fellow  will  be  convicted. 
The  fact  that  we — that  us  boys  in  this  coimty 
strung  up  a  nigger  for  the  crime  won't  make  any 
difference  over  thar,  but  it  will  make  a  lot  here." 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"Well,  I  do,  if  you  don't.  Cap.  We  are  in,  an* 
we  are  in  deep.  You  have  a  curious  way  about 
you — you  git  so  mad  when  things  go  ag'in'  you  that 
you  won't  admit  facts  when  they  are  before  you. 
As  for  me,  I've  been  here  thinkin'  over  it  all  momin'. 
It  is  nasty — the  whole  damn  thing  is  nasty.  The 
niggers  are  gittin'  bold  enough  anyway,  along  with 
what  the  Atlanta  papers  have  been  sayin'  in  their 
favor,  an'  the  Governor  talkin'  about  orderin'  troops 
out,  an'  the  like,  an'  now  this  will  simply  stir  up  the 
State.  We  kin  keep  the  main  body  of  niggers  down 
by  what  we  done — what  was  done  last  night;  but 
thar  are  some  sly  ones  with  white  blood  an'  hell  in 
'em.  We  are  all  in  danger.  Look  at  this  stable." 
Trawley  waved  his  damp  handkerchief  toward  the 
big  building  and  surrounding  wagon-sheds.  "One 
of  the  devils  could  sneak  up  here  any  night  and  set 
fire  to  all  I  got  an'  bum  it  to  the  ground.  It  is  so 
dry  it  would  go  up  like  powder.  I've  got  several 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  vehicles,  to  say  nothin' 
of  live-stock  that  can't  be  driv'  out  at  such  a  time, 
an'  I  don't  carry  insurance,  because  the  rate  is  too 
high,  owin'  to  the  risk  bein'  so  heavy;  ',and  as  for  you 
— ^your  tannery,  house,  cotton-gin,  warehouse,  an' — " 

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Paul     Rundel 

"Thar's  no  good  talkin'  about  all  that!"  Hoag 
broke  in,  with  a  lowering  frown.  "We've  got  to 
do  something,  an'  do  it  quick." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Trawley  said.  "I  hear  one  o' 
them  niggers  whistlin'  for  me;  it  may  be  one  o'  our 
— one  of — may  be  somebody  lookin'  for  us  now. 
Thar'll  be  excitement,  big  excitement,  when  it 
spreads  about  through  the  mountains." 

There  was  an  oak  in  the  yard  which  shaded  the  well, 
and  Hoag  went  to  the  well  and  sat  down  on  the  end 
of  a  long  dug-out  watering-trough.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  perspire  freely,  and  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  fanned  himself  in  a  nervous,  jerky  fashion.  His 
hands  were  damp,  and  on  their  red  backs,  and  along 
his  heavy  wrists,  the  hairs  stood  like  dank  reeds 
in  a  miniature  swamp.  He  was  in  high  dudgeon; 
everything  seemed  to  have  turned  against  him. 
Tye's  unconscious  lecture  and  crude  object-lessons, 
combined  with  the  old  man's  spiritual  placidity  and 
saintly  aloofness  from  the  horrors  he  shrank  from, 
were  galling  in  the  extreme.  Then  Trawley's  fears 
that  certain  property  might  be  destroyed  by  way  of 
retaliation  were  worth  considering ;  and,  lastly,  there 
was  the  humiliation  of  such  a  grave  mistake  becom- 
ing public,  even  though  the  perpetrators  themselves 
might  not  be  known.  From  where  Hoag  sat  he 
could  look  into  the  stable,  and  he  saw  Trawley 
going  from  stall  to  stall  showing  the  horses  to  a  well- 
dressed  stranger,  who  looked  like  a  traveling  sales- 
man of  the  better  class.  Presently  the  man  left  the 
stable,  and  Trawley,  still  holding  his  stick  and  knife 
in  hand,  came  back  to  Hoag. 

"Damn  fool  from  up  North,"  he  explained,  angrily. 
"Wanted  to  hire  a  rig  an'  bosses  to  go  over  the 

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Paul     Rundel 

mountain,  whar  he's  got  some  lumber  interests.  He 
talked  to  me  like — I  wish  you'd  a-heard  'im.  I 
couldn't  hardly  pin  'im  down  to  business,  he  was 
so  full  o'  the  hangin'.  He  happened  to  see  'em 
cut  down  the  body  an'  haul  it  away.  Of  course,  he 
had  no  idea  that  I — he  seemed  to  lay  it  to  a  gang  o' 
cutthroats  from  over  whar  he  was  to  go,  an'  won- 
dered if  it  would  be  safe  for  a  Northern  man  to  drive 
out  unarmed  an'  without  a  bodyguard." 

"Why  didn't  you  slap  his  jaw?"  Hoag  growled, 
inconsistently. 

"Yes,  an'  had  'im  ax  what  it  was  to  me,"  Trawley 
snarled.  "I  did,  in  a  roundabout  way,  try  to  show 
up  our  side,  an'  what  we  have  to  contend  with; 
but  he  just  kept  groanin',  'My  Lord,  my  Lord,'  an' 
sayin'  that  old  woman  an'  her  children  was  the 
pitifulest  sight  he  ever  saw!  He  said" — Trawley 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  grimace  as  he 
tugged  at  his  mustache — -"he  said  all  of  us  civilized 
citizens — 'them  was  his  words — ought  to  band  to- 
gether an'  'force  law  an'  order — that  it  was  killin' 
our  interests.  He  had  been  countin'  on  locatin' 
here,  he  said,  but  was  afeard,  when  the  thing  got 
in  the  papers,  his  company  would  back  out  an'  not 
develop  their  property.  He  seemed  awfully  put 
out.  I  tried  to  tell  'im  that  if  he  knowed  niggers 
as  we  do  he'd  see  it  our  way;  but  the  truth  is,  I  was 
so  bothered  over  that  dang  tramp's  arrest  that — " 

"I've  been  studyin'  over  that."  Hoag  dismissed 
the  stranger  from  his  mind  with  a  fierce  frown. 
"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  Set  down  here — 
set  down!" 

Sid  complied.  "If  you  can  think  of  any  way  out 
o'  the  mess  you  can  beat  me,"  he  said,  dejectedly. 

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Paul     Riindel 

"Thar  is  just  one  thing  for  us  to  do."  Hoag  was 
to  some  extent  regaining  his  self-possession,  his  old 
autocratic  mien  had  returned.  "You  fellows  are 
all  goin'  to  git  rattled  an'  somebody's  got  to  keep  a 
clear  head  an'  plan  how  to  act.  The  klan  will 
naturally  look  to  me;  it  is  really  on  my  shoulders; 
we'll  sink  or  fall  by  my  judgment.  Some  of  us 
have  got  to  git  together  to-night  an'  march  over 
thar  to  the  Canton  jail  an'  take  that  tramp  out." 

"An'  lynch  'im?     Good  Lord,  Cap—" 

"No,  fool,  not  lynch  'im — that  wouldn't  do — that 
never  would  do  in  the  world;  we  must  send  'im 
about  his  business — hustle  'im  out  o'  the  country 
an' — an'  circulate  the  report  that  he  was  arrested 
by  mistake,  which — which  I've  no  doubt  he  was. 
Pete  Watson  sold  'im  the  watch.  That's  plain 
enough." 

"Oh,  ah,  I  see — by  gum,  I  see;  but  what  about 
the  sheriff  over  thar?  Fellers  o'  that  sort  are  some- 
times proud  o'  makin'  an  arrest  in  a  case  like 
that." 

"That's  the  only  hill  to  climb  an'  we  may  fail; 
but  we've  got  to  try  it.  I  know  'im  purty  well. 
He  expects  to  be  re-elected,  an'  half  of  our  boys 
live  in  his  county  an'  vote  thar.  We  must  show  'im 
the  damage  the  thing  would  work  among  the  nig- 
gers, an'  sort  o'  make  a — a  political  issue  of  it ;  show 
'im  that  he'll  git  beat,  an'  beat  bad,  if  he  goes 
ag'in'  so  many." 

"By  gum,  you  are  a  corker.  Cap — you  sure  are." 

Hoag's  eyes  gleamed,  a  look  of  pride  settled  on 
his  face;  he  crossed  his  legs  and  tapped  the  spur  on 
his  heel  with  the  butt  of  his  whip  till  the  little 
pronged  wheel  spun  like  a  circular  saw, 

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Paul     Rundel 

"When  I'm  driv'  clean  to  the  wall  like  this  I 
generally  see  a  loophole,"  he  said.  "Now,  let's 
set  to  work;  you  send  out  the  word  in  the  usual 
way,  an'  have  'em  meet  at  the  Cove,"  ' 

"Good,  good!  It's  worth  tryin',  anyway."  Traw- 
ley  breathed  more  freely.  "I'll  notify  most  o'  the 
boys — especially  them  that  live  in  Canton  County." 

"Order  out  as  many  as  you  can,"  Hoag  said. 
"At  night  it  will  be  hard  for  the  sheriff  to  know  who 
they  all  are,  an'  the  bigger  the  crowd  the  better; 
but,  say — I've  just  thought  of  something  impor- 
tant. You'll  have  to  leave  Sam  an'  Alec  Rose  out. 
You  see  it  stands  to  reason  that  they'd  never  con- 
sent to  let  the  tramp  off,  an' — an' — well,  we  can't 
kill  'im.     He's  got  to  go  free." 

"Yes,  Sam  an'  Alec  will  have  to  be  left  out — they 
are  crazy  enough  as  it  is.  I'll  caution  the  other  boys 
not  to  let  'em  know  a  thing  about  it." 

"That's  the  idea."  Hoag  was  starting  away, 
when  Trawley,  still  seated  on  the  trough,  called  him 
back. 

"Wait;  thar  was  something  else  I  had  on  my  mind 
to  tell  you,  but  it  has  clean  slipped  away.  I  in- 
tended to  tell  you  last  night,  but  we  had  so  much 
to  do,  an'  thar  was  so  much  excitement.  Lemme 
see — oh  yes,  now  I  remember!"  Trawley  stood  up 
and  caught  the  lapel  of  Hoag's  thin  coat.  "Say, 
Cap,  I  want  to  warn  you,  as  a  friend,  you  are  goin' 
to  have  more  trouble  with  Jeff  Warren.  He  hain't 
never  been  satisfied  since  you  an'  him  had  that  fight 
last  spring.  He  says  he  licked  you,  an'  that  you've 
been  denying  it.  He  was  here  at  the  stable  yester- 
day talkin'  about  what  he  was  goin'  to  do  with  you 
when  he  meets  you.     He's  heard  some'n  he  claims 

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Paul     Rundel 

you  said  about  him  an'  Ralph  Rundel's  wife.  I 
reckon  he  is  actin'  the  fool  about  'er,  an'  maybe  he 
is  takin'  advantage  of  a  sick  man;  but  nobody 
knows,  for  sure.  Some  think  Jeff  is  honorable. 
Anyway,  you'll  have  to  look  out  an'  not  let  'im  git 
the  drop  on  you.  He's  a  bloodthirsty  devil  when 
he's  mad,  an'  he  hain't  got  sense  enough  to  know 
that  he'd  compromise  the  woman  worse  by  fightin' 
for  her  than  lettin'  the  matter  blow  over," 

Hoag  stood  silent,  facing  his  companion.  His 
countenance  became  rigid  and  his  heavy  brows  fell 
together;  there  was  a  peculiar  twitching  about  his 
nostrils.  "I  don't  know  what  I  said  about  him  an' 
her,  an'  I  care  less."  He  spoke  in  halting,  uncer- 
tain tones.     "I've  got  no  use  for  'im,  an'  never  had." 

"Well,  I  thought  there'd  be  no  harm  in  puttin' 
you  on  yore  guard."  Trawley  looked  at  his  chief 
as  if  perplexed  over  his  mood.  "He's  a  hot-headed 
devil,  that  will  shoot  at  the  drop  of  a  hat." 

Hoag  stood  rigid.  There  was  a  fixed  stare  in  his 
eyes.  His  lips  quivered,  as  if  on  the  verge  of  ut- 
terance, and  then  he  looked  down  at  the  ground. 
Trawley  eyed  him  in  slow  surprise  for  a  moment, 
then  he  said: 

:  "I  hope.  Cap,  you  don't  think  I  am  meddlin'  in 
yore  private  business.  It  is  not  often  that  I  tote 
any  sort  o'  tale  betwixt  two  men;  but  Jeff  is  such  a 
rampant  daredevil,  an'  so  crazy  right  now,  that — " 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  'im.  Good  God,  don't  think 
that!"  Hoag  was  quite  pale.  "It  was  only — say, 
Sid,  it's  like  this :  do  you  think  that  a  man  like  me, 
with  all  I've  got  at  stake,  one  way  or  another,  can 
afford  to — to  take  even  chances  with  a  shiftless  fool 
like  Jeff  Warren?" 

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Paul     Rundel 

"It  ain't  what  you,  or  me,  or  anybody  can  afford 
to  do,"  the  stable-owner  returned,  "or  zvant  to  do, 
for  that  matter;  when  a  chap  like  Jeff  is  loaded 
for  bear  an'  on  our  trail  we've  either  got  to  git  ready 
for  'im  or — or  swear  out  a  peace- warrant,  an'  me  or 
you'd  rather  be  hung  than  do  the  like  o'  that.  As 
for  me,  in  all  rows  I  treat  everybody  alike.  If  a 
black  buck  nigger  wants  satisfaction  out  o'  me  he 
can  git  it — you  bet  he  can." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  Hoag  said,  his  eyes  shift- 
ing restlessly  in  their  deep  sockets,  his  fingers 
fumbling  his  whip.  "I  was  just  wondering;  did 
he — did  you  notice  whether  Warren  was  totin'  a 
gun  or  not?" 

"I  think  he  was;  that's  why  I  rnentioned  the 
matter  to  you.  In  fact,  he  was  inquiring  if  any- 
body had  seen  you — said  he  knowed  enough  law 
to  know  that  if  he  went  to  yore  house  on  such  seri- 
ous business  that  he'd  be  held  accountable,  wharas, 
if  you  an'  him  met  on  a  public  highway  it  would 
be  all  right,  beca'se  it  was  your  unjustified  remark 
ag'in'  a  woman  that  started  the  thing." 

Hoag  stared  into  the  face  of  his  companion  for 
another  minute.  It  was  as  if  he  wanted  some  sort 
of  advice  and  did  not  know  how  to  ask  for  it.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  lashed  the  hot  air  with  his 
whip,  cleared  his  throat,  and  said: 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  afraid  o'  the  dirty 
puppy,  Sid?" 

"Afraid,  oh  no!"  Trawley  replied,  indifferently. 
"Of  course  not.  You  kin  shoot  as  straight  as  he 
can.  Besides,  if  it  come  to  the  worst — if  he  did 
happen  to  git  the  best  of  it — you  are  in  as  good  a 
shape  to  die  as  any  man  I  know.     You'd  leave  your 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

wife  an'  family  well  provided  for.  Take  my  advice 
and  don't  give  'im  a  chance  to  draw  a  gun.  Pull 
down,  and  pull  down  quick!" 

Trawley  led  the  way  back  into  the  stable,  and  at 
the  front  the  two  men  parted.  Hoag  was  on  the 
sidewalk  when  Trawley  called  to  him,  and  came  to 
his  side. 

"If  you  hain't  got  a  gun  on  you,  you  kin  take 
mine,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I've  got  one,"  Hoag  answered,  a  far-off  look  in 
his  eyes,  and  he  slid  a  hand  over  his  bulging  hip- 
pocket.     "I  never  go  without  it." 

"Well,  if  nothin'  happens,  then  I'll  meet  you  to- 
night," Trawley  reminded  him.  "We  must  put 
that  thing  through." 

Hoag  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  returned,  abstract- 
edly.    "All  right— all  right." 

"If  nothin'  happens!"  The  words  fairly  stung 
his  consciousness  as  he  walked  away.  "If  nothin' 
happens!"  His  feet  and  legs  felt  heavy.  There 
was  a  cold,  tremulous  sensation  in  the  region  of  his 
pounding  heart. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOAG  had  some  important  business  to  transact 
in  the  little  bank  on  one  of  the  comers  of  the 
Square,  and  he  was  detained  there  half  an  hour  or 
more.  The  thought  flashed  on  him,  as  he  sat  alone 
at  the  banker's  desk  in  the  rear,  that  a  prudent  man 
at  such  a  time  would  make  a  will ;  but  the  idea  chilled 
him,  horrified  him.  This  feeling  was  followed  by  a 
desperate  sort  of  anger  over  the  realization  that  a 
low,  shiftless  clodhopper  could  so  materially  upset 
a  man  of  his  importance.  He  had  recalled  the  idle 
remark  which  had  reached  Warren's  ears,  and  knew 
it  was  the  kind  of  thing  the  man  would  fight  to  the 
death  about.  And  there  was  no  way  out  of  it — no 
way  under  the  sun.  He  could  not — as  Trawley  had 
said — appeal  to  the  law  for  protection ;  such  a  course 
would  make  him  the  laughing-stock  of  all  his  fol- 
lowers, who  thought  him  to  be  a  man  of  unquestioned 
courage.  Hoag  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  to  him  and 
began  to  write,  but  was  unable  to  fix  his  mind  on 
the  matter  in  hand.  It  seemed  utterly  trivial  be- 
side the  encroaching  horror.  Jeff  Warren  might 
walk  in  at  any  moment  and  level  his  revolver;  Jeff 
Warren  would  kill  the  traducer  of  a  woman  in  a 
church  or  in  a  group  of  mourners  over  a  new  grave 
and  feel  that  he  had  done  his  duty.  Hoag  crumpled 
up  the  sheet  of  paper  and  dropped  it  into  a  waste- 
paper  basket  under  the  desk.  He  thrust  his  hand 
behind  him  and  drew  out  his  revolver  and  looked 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

at  it.  He  noticed,  as  he  twirled  the  polished  cylin- 
der, that  his  fingers  shook.  He  ground  his  teeth, 
uttered  a  low  oath,  and  put  the  revolver  back  into 
his  pocket.  How  could  he  defend  himself  with 
nerves  such  as  the  combination  of  tobacco  and 
whisky  had  given  him  ?  He  rose  and  went  through 
the  bank  to  the  street,  returning  the  banker's  smil- 
ing salutation  from  the  little  grated  window  as  he 
passed  out. 

He  drew  a  breath  of  relief  when  he  reached  the 
sidewalk,  for  Warren  was  not  in  sight.  To  Hoag 
an  irrelevant  sort  of  mocking  placidity  rested  on  the 
scene.  Storekeepers,  clerks,  and  cotton-buyers  were 
moving  about  without  their  coats,  pencils  behind 
their  ears.  Countrymen  from  the  mountains  in 
white-hooded  wagons  were  unloading  grain,  potatoes, 
apples,  chickens  in  coops,  and  bales  of  hay,  with 
their  hearts  in  their  work,  while  he,  the  financial 
superior  of  them  all,  was  every  minute  expecting 
to  grapple  with  a  bloody  and  ignominious  death. 
He  had  a  deed  to  record  at  the  Court  House,  and  he 
went  into  the  big,  cool  building  and  turned  the 
document  over  to  the  clerk  with  instructions  to 
keep  the  paper  till  he  called  for  it.  Two  lank, 
coatless  farmers,  seated  near  the  desk,  were  play- 
ing checkers  on  a  worn,   greasy  board. 

"Ah,  ha!"  one  of  them  said,  "cap  that  un,  an' 
watch  me  swipe  the  balance." 

Hoag  was  going  out  when  he  saw,  carelessly  lean- 
ing in  the  doorway  at  the  front  of  the  hall,  the  man 
he  was  dreading  to  meet.  For  an  instant  he  had 
an  impulse  to  fall  back  into  the  clerk's  office,  and 
then  the  sheer  futility  of  such  a  course  presented 
itself.     Besides,  the  tall,  slender  man,  with  dark  hair 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

and  eyes  and  waxed  mustache,  who  had  no  weapon 
in  sight,  was  calmly  addressing  him. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Jim  Hoag,"  he  said.  "Sup- 
pose we.  step  back  in  the  yard  at  the  end  o'  the 
house?" 

"Oh,  hello,  Warren,  how  are  you?"  Hoag  said, 
forcing  a  desperate  smile  to  his  stiff  mouth  and 
chilled  cheeks. 

"I'll  try  to  show  you  how  I  am  in  a  few  minutes," 
Warren  answered,  coldly,  and  he  led  the  way  down 
the  hall,  his  high-heeled  boots  ringing  on  the  bare 
floor,  toward  the  door  at  the  end.  "Or  maybe  it 
will  be  t'other  way — you  may  show  me.  Well,  if 
you  can,  you  are  welcome." 

"I  see  you  are  lookin'  for  trouble,  Jeff,"  Hoag  be- 
gan. "I  heard  you  wanted  to  see  me,  an'  I  heard 
you  was  mad  at  some  fool  lie  or  other  that — " 

"You  step  out  here  on  the  grass,"  Warren  said. 
"I  never  seed  the  day  I  wouldn't  give  even  a  bloated 
skunk  like  you  a  fair  chance.  Draw  your  gun. 
You've  got  more  money  'an  I  have,  Hoag;  but,  by 
God !  my  honor  an'  the  honor  of  a  respectable  lady 
of  my  acquaintance  is  worth  as  much  to  me  as — " 

"Look  here,  Jeff,  I  ain't  armed."  Hoag  lied  flatly 
as  he  saw  Warren  thrust  his  hand  behind  him.  ' '  You 
say  you  want  to  act  fair,  then  be  fair — be  reason- 
able.    The  truth  is—" 

"Oh,  I  see — well,  if  you  ain't  ready,  that  alters 
it!  No  man  can't  accuse  me  of  pullin'  down  on  a 
feller  that  ain't  fixed.  I  know  you  ain't  a-goin'  to 
back  down  after  what  I've  said  to  your  teeth,  an' 
I'll  set  here  on  this  step  an'  you  go  across  to  the 
hardware  store  an'  fix  yourself.  Mine's  a  thirty- 
eight.     I  don't  care  what  size  you  git.     I  want  you 


Paul     R  u  n  d  c 1 

to  be  plumb  satisfied.  Don't  tell  anybody,  either. 
We  don't  want  no  crowd.     This  is  our  affair." 

Hoag  moved  a  step  nearer  to  the  offended  man. 
He  smiled  rigidly.  His  voice  fell  into  appealing, 
pleading  gentleness. 

"Looky  here,  Jeff,  you  an'  mc've  had  differences, 
I  know,  an'  thar's  been  plenty  o'  bad  blood  betwixt 
us;  but  as  God  is  my  judge  I  never  had  any  deep  ill- 
will  ag'in'  you.  I've  always  known  you  was  a  brave 
man,  an'  I  admired  it  in  you.  You  are  mad  now, 
an'  you  are  not  seein'  things  straight.  You've  heard 
some'n  or  other;  but  it  ain't  true.  Now,  I  don't 
want  any  trouble  with  you,  an — " 

"Trouble!"  Warren's  dark  eyes  flashed;  his 
voice  rang  like  steel  striking  steel.  It  was  an  odd 
blending  of  threat  and  laughter.  "If  we  don't 
have  trouble  the  sun  won't  set  to-night.  I'm  talkin' 
about  w^hat  you  said  at  the  post-office  t'other  day 
to  a  gang  about  me  an'  a  certain  neighbor's  wife." 

"I  think  I  can  guess  what  you  are  talkin'  about, 
an'  you've  got  it  plumb  crooked,  Jeff."  Hoag  bent 
toward  the  man  and  laid  a  bloodless  hand  full  of 
soothing  intent  on  his  shoulder.  "You  say  you  are 
a  fair  man,  Jeff,  an'  I  know  you  are,  an'  when  a 
man  like  me  says  he's  sorry  and  wants  to  fix 
things  straight — without  bloodshed — be  reasonable. 
I  didn't  mean  to  reflect  on  the  lady.  I  just  said,  if 
I  remember  right,  that  it  looked  like  she  admired  you 
some.  An'  if  you  say  so,  I'll  apologize  to  her  my- 
self.    No  man  could  ask  more  than  that." 

The  fierce  dark  eyes  blinked;  their  glare  sub- 
sided.    There  was  a  momentous  pause. 

"I  wouldn't  want  'er  to  hear  a  thing  like  that," 
Warren  faltered.  "Too  much  has  been  said  any- 
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Paul     Rundel 

way,  one  way  an'  another,  by  meddlin'  gossips,  an' 
it  would  hurt  her  feelin's.  I  didn't  want  to  fight 
about  it,  but  couldn't  hold  in.  An'  if  you  say  you 
didn't  mean  nothin'  disrespectful,  why,  that  will 
have  to  do.  We'll  drop  it.  I  don't  want  bloodshed 
myself,  if  I  kin  get  around  it." 

"I  don't  want  any  either,  Jeff,"  Hoag  said,  still 
pacifically,  and  yet  his  fury,  contempt  for  himself, 
and  hatred  for  the  man  before  him  were  already 
returning,  "so  we'll  call  it  settled?" 

"All  right,  all  right,"  Warren  agreed;  "it  will  have 
to  do.  When  a  man  talks  like  you  do  nothin'  more 
is  to  be  said.  I  never  yet  have  whipped  a  man  that 
didn't  want  to  fight.    I'd  as  soon  hit  a  suckin'  baby." 

They  parted,  Warren  going  into  the  Court  House 
and  Hoag  to  the  stable  for  his  horse.  Trawley  was 
at  the  front  waiting  for  him. 

"Hello,"  he  cried,  "I  see  he  didn't  plug  you  full 
o'  holes.  I  watched  'im  follow  you  into  the  Court 
House,  an'  expected  to  hear  a  whole  volley  o'  shots." 

"He  did  want  to  see  me,"  Hoag  sneered,  loftily. 
"In  fact,  he  come  while  I  was  havin'  a  paper  re- 
corded an'  wanted  to  see  me.  He  tried  to  git  me 
to  admit  I  was  slanderin'  that  woman,  an'  I  gave 
'im  a  piece  o'  my  mind  about  it.  Her  son  works 
for  me,  an'  I  think  a  lot  of  the  boy.  I  wouldn't 
have  Paul  hear  a  thing  like  that  for  anything.  He's 
all  right  an'  is  tryin'  hard  to  make  his  way.  I  told 
Jeff  if  he  wanted  bloodshed  to  git  up  some  other 
pretext  an'  I'd  give  'im  all  he  wanted.  A  triflin' 
scamp  Hke  he  is  can't  stamp  me  in  public  as  a  tra- 
ducer  of  women." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  Trawley,  in  vague  approval. 
"Well,  that's  out  of  the  way,  an'  we  can  attend  to 

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Paul     Rundel 

the  other  matter.  It's  a  serious  thing,  Jim  Hoag. 
The  sheriff  over  in  Canton  may  tell  us  to  mind  our 
own  rat-killin',  and  then  we  would  be  in  a  box." 

"We've  got  to  bring  all  our  force  to  bear  an'  pull 
'im  round,"  Hoag  said.  "I'm  goin'  to  see  a  few  of 
our  main  men  here  in  town,  an'  sorter  map  out  a 
plan.  If  we  go  at  it  right,  we'll  pull  it  through. 
I'll  meet  you  all  at  the  Cove  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Hoag  rode  up 
to  his  house  and  deUvered  his  horse  to  Cato, 
with  instructions  to  feed  and  water  the  animal  and 
rub  him  down  carefully,  as  he  had  to  "use  him  again 
after  supper." 

In  the  hall  he  met  his  wife.  She  had  a  tired, 
anxious  look  on  her  face,  which  seemed  flushed  by 
the  heat  of  the  cooking-stove,  over  which  she  had 
been  working. 

"Have  the  cows  come  up?"  he  asked  her. 

"Yes."  She  glanced  at  him  timidly.  "Mother 
is  down  attendin'  to  the  milkin'  with.Dilly.  I'm 
watchin'  the  meat  in  the  stove." 

"You'd  better  take  it  up  as  soon  as  it's  good 
done,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  supper  to  be  late 
ag'in — not  to-night,  anyway.  I've  got  to  ride  out 
to  see  a  man  that's  got  a  lot  o'  land  to  sell." 

"It's  about  done,"  she  answered,  wearily,  "an' 
I'll  take  it  up  an'  set  the  table." 

He  passed  on  to  the  kitchen,  filled  a  dipper  with 
water  from  the  pail,  and  drank;  then  he  returned 
to  the  front  veranda  and  sat  down  in  a  latticed 
corner,  over  which  honeysuckles  climbed.  He  re- 
moved his  coat,  for  the  air  was  close  and  hot. 
He  opened  the  bosom  of  his  moist  shirt,  and 
fanned  his  face,  big  neck,  and  hairy  chest  with  his 
hat.  He  was  upset,  dissatisfied,  angry.  So  many 
things  had  gone  contrary  to  his  wishes.    Wliy  had  he 

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Paul     Rundel 

allowed  Silas  Tye  to  talk  to  him  in  such  a  vein? 
Why  had  he  not  defended  the  worthy  principle  he 
and  his  followers  stood  for?  What  could  an  igno- 
rant shoemaker  know  of  such  grave  and  important 
issues  ?  Then  there  was  the  memory  of  Jeff  Warren's 
grimly  determined  mouth,  set  jaws,  and  flaming 
eyes,  as  he  stood  placidly  demanding  satisfaction 
of  him — of  him.  Hoag's  rage  ran  through  him  like 
streams  of  liquid  fire,  the  glow  of  which  hung  before 
his  eyes  like  a  mist  of  flame.  Why  had  he  not — 
he  clenched  his  brawny  fist  and  the  muscles  of 
his  arm  drew  taut — why  had  he  not  beaten  the  in- 
solent fellow's  face  to  a  pulp  for  daring  to  talk  of 
satisfaction  to  him?  The  man,  even  now,  was  per- 
haps recounting  what  had  happened  in  his  stoical, 
inconsequential  way,  and  there  were  some  persons — 
some,  at  least — who  would  think  that  the  apology 
was  the  last  resort  of  a  coward.  Men  who  didn't 
really  know  him  might  fancy  such  to  be  the 
case.  Yes,  he  must  have  it  out  with  Warren. 
Some  day — before  long,  too — he  would  call  him  down 
publicly  on  some  pretext  or  other  in  which  a  wom- 
an's fame  was  not  involved,  and  prove  himself  to 
others  and,  yes — to  himself. 

There  was  a  soft  step  in  the  hallway  behind  him. 
It  was  his  wife.  He  felt  rather  than  saw  her  pres- 
ence in  the  doorway. 

"What  is  it — what  is  it?"  he  demanded,  im- 
patiently. 

He  heard  her  catch  her  breath,  and  knew  the  de- 
lay in  replying  was  due  to  habitual  timidity.  He 
repeated  his  question  fiercely,  for  there  was  satis- 
faction in  being  stern  to  some  one  after  the  humili- 
ating manner  in  which  he  had  received  Warren. 

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Paul     Rundel 

"You  say  you  are  goin'  out  after  supper?"  she 
faltered.     "I  hope  you  ain't  goin'  far,  because — " 

"I'm  goin'  as  far  as  I  want  to  go,"  he  hurled  at 
her.  "I  won't  let  you  nor  your  mammy  dabble  in 
my  affairs.  I  don't  have  to  make  excuses  neither. 
My  business  is  my  business.  I'll  have  to  be  late; 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  thar,  whether  I  am  or 
not.  I  see  you  both  with  your  heads  together  now 
and  then,  and  I  know  what  you  say — I  know  what 
you  think — but  I'll  be  my  own  boss  in  this  establish- 
ment, an'  you  may  as  well  count  on  it." 

"Don't,  don't!  Please  don't  talk  so  loud!"  she 
implored  him,  for  his  voice  had  risen  almost  to  a 
shriek.  "Didn't  Paul  Rundel  tell  you?  I  sent  'im 
in  town  to  find  you.     Surely  you  know — " 

"To  find  me?     What  for?" 

"Why,  the  baby's  awful  sick;  he's  just  dropped 
to  sleep.  Paul  got  Dr.  Lynn  as  quick  as  he  could, 
an'  then  went  on  after  you." 

"Sick — sick— is  Jack  sick?" 

Hoag  lowered  the  front  part  of  his  chair  to  the 
floor  and  stood  up.  He  stared  into  the  shrinking 
face  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  spoke  in  a  low, 
startled  voice. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say  ailed  him?" 

"He  said  he  couldn't  tell  yet.  Jack's  got  a 
powerful  high  fever.  Dr.  Lynn  said  it  might  be 
very  serious,  and  it  might  not.  He  left  some  medi- 
cine, an'  told  me  to  watch  the  child  close.  He  said 
he'd  be  back  as  soon  as  he  could  possibly  get  here. 
He'd  have  stayed  on,  but  he  was  obliged  to  attend 
to  Mrs.  Petty,  who  ain't  expected  to  last  through 
the  night." 

Silence  fell  as  the  woman  ceased  speaking.     Hoag's 

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Paul     Rundel 

breathing  through  his  big,  hair-Hncd  nostrils  was 
audible.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  door-facing  and 
swayed  toward  it.  Every  trace  of  his  anger  had 
vanished. 

"I  didn't  see  Paul."  He  had  lowered  his  voice 
to  an-  undertone.  "I  had  no  idea  Jack  was  sick. 
When — when  did  you  first  notice  it?" 

"About  four  o'clock.  He  was  playin'  in  the  yard, 
as  usual,  an'  I  didn't  dream  anything  was  wrong 
till  Aunt  Dilly  come  to  me  an'  said  Jack  acted  odd. 
She  said  she'd  been  watchin'  'im  through  the  win- 
dow, an*  he'd  quit  playin'  an'  would  lie  down  on  the 
grass  awhile  an'  then  git  up  an'  play  a  little  an'  then 
lie  down  ag'in.  I  went  out  and  found  him  with  the 
hottest  skin  I  ever  felt  an'  a  queer,  glassy  look  in 
his  eyes.  I  toted  'im  in  an'  put  'im  on  the  bed,  an' 
then  I  saw  he  was  plumb  out  o'  his  head,  thinkin' 
he  saw  ugly  things  which  he  said  was  comin'  to  git 
'im.    He  was  thatway.off  an'on,till  thedoctor  come." 

One  of  Hoag's  greatest  inconsistencies  was  the 
tendency  to  anger  whenever  anything  went  con- 
trary to  his  desires.  He  was  angry  now,  angry 
while  he  was  filled  with  vague  fear  and  while  cer- 
tain self-accusing  thoughts  flitted  about  him  like 
winged  imps  of  darkness.  He  wanted  to  charge 
some  one  with  having  neglected  the  child,  and  he 
would  have  done  so  at  any  moment  less  grave. 
Just  then  a  low  moan  came  from  Mrs.  Hoag's  room 
on  the  right  of  the  hall,  and  she  hastened  to  Jack's 
bedside.  Hoag  followed  on  tiptoe  and  bent  over 
the  child,  who  lay  on  his  little  bed  before  a  window 
through  which  the  fading  light  was  falling. 

The  child  recognized  his  father  and  held  up  his 
flushed  arms. 

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Paul     Rundel 

"Dadd3^  Back's  hick.     It's  hot— hot!" 

"I  know — I  know,"  Hoag  said,  soothingly,  his 
hand  on  the  child's  brow;  "the  medicine  will  cool 
you  off  after  a  while." 

"Black  things  come  to  catch  Dack — oh.  Daddy, 
don't  let  'em — don't  let   'em!" 

"You  was  out  o'  your  head,"  Hoag  heard  himself 
saying,  almost  cooingly.  "It  was  a  bad  dream^ — 
that's  all — a  mean,  bad  dream." 

Then  a  vague  stare  of  coming  unconsciousness 
crept  into  the  child's  eyes  and  the  long  lashes 
drooped  to  the  flushed  cheeks.  Hoag  drew  himself 
erect,  held  his  breath  lest  his  exhaling  might  waken 
the  child,  and  crept  quietly  from  the  room  back  to 
the  veranda. 

The  twilight  was  thickening  over  the  fields  and 
meadows.  The  mountains  loomed  up  like  sinister 
monsters  against  the  sky.  Clouds  of  blue  smoke 
from  forest  fires,  far  and  near,  hovered  over  the  val- 
ley. The  sultry  air  was  laden  with  the  odor  of 
burning  twigs,  leaves,  and  underbrush.  There  was 
a  step  on  the  back  porch,  and,  turning,  he  saw  Mrs. 
Tilton  coming  in,  bowed  between  two  pails  of  milk. 
He  went  to  her  as  she  stood  at  the  kitchen-table 
straining  the  warm,  fragrant  fluid  into  a  brown  jar. 

"What  do  you  think  ails  the  baby?"  he  inquired. 

"Looks  to  me  like  scarlet  fever,"  she  answered, 
with  the  stoicism  of  her  age  and  sex.  "I  hain't  seen 
many  cases  in  my  time,  but  from  the  indications — " 

He  swore  under  his  breath,  angry  at  her  for  even 
suggesting  such  a  horrible  possibility.  "I  reckon 
you  don't  know  much  about  such  things.  Wait  till 
the  doctor  says  it's  as  bad  as  that  before  you  jump 
at  it  so  quick." 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"I  didn't  say  I  knowed  for  sure,"  Mrs.  Tilton 
flared,  resentfully.  "But  thar's  one  thing  certain, 
the  doctor  is  worried — I  saw  that  plain  enough; 
he  is  worried,  an'  I  never  would  'a'  thought  o' 
scarlet  fever  if  he  hadn't  said  a  lot  of  it  was  goin' 
round  about." 

"Who's  got  it?"  Hoag  demanded,  as  fiercely  as 
a  lawyer  browbeating  a  refractory  witness. 

"Why,  the  McKinneys'  youngest  gal.  They  sent 
'er  over  here  to  borrow  salt  t'other  day  just  before 
she  was  took  down,  an'  her  an'  Jack — " 

"I  reckon  you'll  say  you  let  Jack  play  with  'er 
next,"  Hoag  blustered,  in  the  tone  of  a  rough  man 
to  a  rough  man. 

"How  could  we  tell?"  was  the  admission,  calmly 
enough  made.  "She  hadn't  broke  out — she  did 
look  sort  o'  red;  but  it  was  a  hot  day,  an'  I  thought 
she'd  been  runnin',  as  children  will  do.  Jack  was 
play  in'  in  the  straw  that  was  cut  last  week,  an'  she 
come  by  an' — " 

"Pack  of  fools — pack  of  idiots!"  Hoag  thundered, 
and  he  went  back  to  the  veranda,  where  for  several 
minutes  he  stood  staring  dejectedly  into  the  night. 
He  was  there  holding  his  unlighted  pipe  in  his  hand, 
his  ears  bent  to  catch  any  sound  from  the  sick-room, 
when  Aunt  Dilly,  the  fat  cook,  came  shuffling  in  her 
slipshod  way  up  behind  him. 

"Supper's  on  de  table,  Marse  Jim,"  she  announced, 
in  a  low  tone  of  concern.  "Miss  Sarah  an*  'er  ma 
say  dey  don't  feel  like  eatin'  a  bite — dey  is  so  clean 
upset  an'  outdone." 

Hoag  was  not  conscious  of  any  desire  for  food, 
but  as  a  matter  of  form  or  habit  he  followed 
the  negress  to  the  dining-room  across  the  hall  from 

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Paul     Rundel 

where  the  child  lay  and  took  his  usual  seat  at  the 
long  table.  A  lamp  with  a  pink  paper  shade  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  board,  and  threw  a  rosy  glow 
over  the  dishes  and  cold  vegetables  and  meat. 
Hoag  helped  himself  to  the  cabbage  and  beans,  and 
broke  the  com  pone,  and  poured  out  his  coffee.  He 
ate  slowly  and  yet  without  due  mastication,  for  he 
was  constantly  listening,  with  knife  and  fork  poised 
in  the  air,  for  any  sound  from  the  sick-room.  The 
sight  of  the  high,  empty  chair  in  which  the  baby 
usually  sat  next  to  him  sent  a  shudder  through  him 
and  tightened  his  throat.  Hurrying  through  his 
supper,  he  rose  and  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the 
veranda.  The  fear  that  was  on  him  was  like 
a  palpable  weight  which  crushed  him  physically 
as  well  as  mentally.  Recent  disagreeable  occur- 
rences flitted  before  his  mind's  eye  like  specters. 
It  seemed  to  him,  all  at  once,  that  a  malignant 
destiny  might  be  taking  him  in  hand.  An  evil  sun 
had  risen  on  him  that  day,  and  this  was  its  setting. 
Jack,  the  flower  of  his  life — the  only  creature  he 
had  ever  really  loved — ^was  going  to  die — to  die, 
actually  to  die!  Hoag  stifled  an  upsurging  groan. 
His  head  sank  till  his  chin  touched  his  bare  breast, 
and  then  he  drew  himself  up  in  resentful  surprise 
over  his  weakness.  The  night  crept  on  like  a  vast 
thing  full  of  omnipotent  and  crafty  design.  It  was 
twelve  o'clock,  and  yet  he  had  not  thought  of  sleep, 
although  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes  the  night  before. 
He  heard  voices  in  the  sick-room,  and  was  about  to 
go  thither,  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Tilton 
came  along  the  hall  and  stopped  at  his  chair. 

"I  thought  you  was  in  bed,"  she  said,  in  a  strange, 
reserved  tone.     "I'm  awfully  worried.     I'm  afraid 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

it's  goin'  ag'in'  Sarah.  She  ain't  strong  enough  to 
stand  up  under  it.  If  Jack  goes  she'll  go  too.  Mark 
my  prediction." 

"How's  the  baby?"  Hoag  impatiently  demanded. 

"I  don't  know;  he's  tossin'  awfid.  Looks  like 
Dr.  Lynn  would  have  been  here  by  this  time;  but 
he  said  the  only  tiling  to  do  was  to  wait  an'  see 
how  the  medicine  acted.  Are  you  goin'  to  stay 
up?" 

Hoag's  head  rocked.  "Yes,  I  want  to  hear  what 
he  says.     I'll  be  out  here  if — if  you — need  me." 

"All  right."  And  the  old  woman  sHpped  away 
in  the  unlighted  hall,  and  he  heard  her  softly  opening 
the  door  of  the  sick-room.  The  silence  of  the  night 
grew  profound.  The  moon  was  rising  Uke  a  flaming 
world  above  the  mountain,  throwing  its  mystical 
veil  over  the  landscape.  There  was  a  sound  of  a 
closing  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  lawn,  and  some  one 
entered  and  came  up  the  walk.  It  was  Henry.  He 
had  a  cane  in  his  hand,  and  was  idly  slashing  the 
flowers  which  bordered  the  walk.  He  was  whis- 
tling in  a  low,  contented  way.  Down  the  steps  crept 
his  father,  and  they  met  a  little  distance  from  the 
house. 

"Stop  that  infernal  noise!"  Hoag  commanded. 
"Hain't  you  got  an  ounce  o'  sense?  The  baby's 
sick  an'  you'll  wake  'im.     Whar've  you  been?" 

"Over  at  John  Wells's  house,"  the  boy  replied. 
"Tobe  is  going  off  to  Texas,  and  everybody  was 
saying  good-by." 

"I'll  believe  that  when  I  have  to,"  Hoag  growled. 
"I  can  smell  liquor  on  you  now.  You  fairly  stink 
with  it." 

"'Twasn't   nothing   but   an   eggnog   Mrs.  Wells 

99 


Paul     Rundel 

made,"  the  boy  said,  slowly,  studying  the  face  be- 
fore him. 

"Well,  you  go  on  to  bed,"  Hoag  ordered.  "An* 
don't  you  make  a  bit  o'  noise  goin'  in,  either.  Don't 
wake  that  child." 

"I  ain't  agoin'  to  wake  'im,"  Henry  answered,  as 
he  turned  away.  "I'm  sorry  he's  sick.  Can  I  see 
him?" 

"No,  you  can't!  Go  to  bed  an'  let  'im  alone." 
When  liis  son  had  disappeared  into  the  house 
Hoag  stood  for  a  moment  staring  at  the  light  which 
filtered  through  the  green  bHnds  of  his  wife's  room, 
and  then,  hearing  the  beating  of  hoofs  on  the  road, 
he  moved  on  to  the  gate  with  an  eager,  tentative 
step. 

"That's  the  doctor  now,"  he  thought.  "What 
the  hell's  he  creepin'  along  like  a  snail  for  when 
we've  been  waitin' — "  But  the  horse  had  stopped 
in  the  shadow  of  the  bam,  and  Hoag  saw  the  rider 
still  in  the  saddle  leaning  sideways  and  peering  at 
him. 

"What's  the  matter.  Doc?"  Hoag  called  out. 
"Want  me  to  hitch  yo'  hoss?" 

"It  hain't  the  doctor— it's  me,  Cap.  Anybody 
in  sight — road  clear?" 

An  oath  of  combined  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment escaped  Hoag's  tense  lips.  It  was  Trawley, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  parted  with  the 
man  that  afternoon  he  recalled  his  appointment. 
He  said  nothing,  but  opened  the  gate,  passed  out, 
and  went  along  the  fence  to  the  horse  and  rider. 

"I  come  by  to  report."  Trawley  threw  a  leg 
over  the  rump  of  his  steaming  horse  and  stood  down 
on  the  ground.     "Met  Paul  Rundel  in  town  search- 

lOO 


Paul     Run  del 

in'  high  an'  low  for  you,  an'  heard  your  baby  was 
purty  bad  off,  so  when  I  met  the  boys — eighty  odd — 
an'  we'd  waited  as  long  as  we  possibly  could,  I  ex- 
plained to  'em  and  took  command,  an'  we  went  on; 
we  just  had  to — time  was  powerful  short,  you  know. 
We  rode  fast,  goin'  an'  comin'." 

Trawley  ceased  speaking  and  looked  at  his  chief 
in  slow  astonishment,  for  Hoag  was  blankly  staring 
at  the  ground. 

"My  God,  Cap,  the  little  chap  hain't — dead,  is 
he?" 

"No,  no,  not  yet — not  yet,"  Hoag  muttered; 
"but  he  may  be  before  momin'," 

"You  don't  say!  That's  bad,  powerful  bad,  for 
I  know  what  a  great  pet  he  is,  an'  a  bright,  knowin' 
child,  too,  if  thar  ever  was  one.  Well,  I  reckon  you 
want  to  know  what  we  done?  We  got  thar  in  the 
neighborhood  o'  nine  o'clock,  an'  rid  straight  to  the 
jail.  The  sheriff  was  thar  hisself  on  guard,  an'  at 
first  he  thought  we  was  a  gang  bent  on  lynchin',  an' 
shet  all  doors  an'  talked  about  firin'  on  us;  but  I'd 
appointed  Sim  Cotes  as  spokesman,  an'  we  raised 
a  white  flag  an'  called  the  sheriff  out.  Then  Sim 
laid  down  the  law  in  a  speech  as  smooth  as  goose 
grease.  As  fast  as  the  sheriff  would  raise  an  objec- 
tion Sim  would  knock  it  into  a  cocked  hat,  till  finally 
the  feller  didn't  have  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Sim  told 
'im  that  if  he  didn't  act  sensible  five  hundred  men 
would  be  out  in  the  mornin'  workin'  for  his  defeat 
in  the  next  election.  He  wiggled,  an'  argued,  an' 
mighty  nigh  prayed — they  say  he's  a  deacon  or 
some'n  or  other;  but  he  had  his  price,  an'  he  finally 
tumbled.  He  went  in  an'  talked  with  the  jailer  an' 
his  wife.     The  woman  was  on  our  side;    said  she 

lOI 


Paul     Rundel 

didn't  want  to  see  the  tramp  strung  up  nohow.  It 
was  funny;  we  had  'im  whar  the  wool  was  short,  as 
the  sayin'  is,  an'  so — " 

Trawley  stopped,  for  Hoag  had  turned  abruptly 
and  was  looking  past  him  to  the  cross-roads  at  the 
corner  of  his  property. 

"That  must  be  Doc  Lynn  now,"  he  said,  excitedly. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  Trawley  answered.  "That  is  a 
drummer  in  a  rig  o'  mine.  He  went  over  to  Tyler 
Station  before  daylight,  an'  was  to  git  back  to-night. 
I  know  the  hoss's  trot.  Say,  Cap,  we  shore  did  act 
in  hot  blood  last  night.  We  kin  say  what  we  Hke 
to  the  public,  but  we  certainly  sent  one  innocent 
coon  to  judgment.  That  measly  tramp  was  as 
guilty  as  ever  a  man  was." 

"You  think  so?"    Hoag  said,  listlessly. 

"Yes;  we  led  'im  down  the  road  apiece  after  we 
left  the  jail.  He  hadn't  heard  our  dicker  with  the 
sheriff,  an*  made  shore  we  was  in  for  hangin'  'im. 
He  must  o'  had  a  streak  o'  good  old-fashioned  re- 
ligion in  'im,  for  all  the  way  we  heard  'im  prayin' 
like  rips.  Even  when  we  all  got  around  'im  to  ex- 
plain he  drapped  on  his  knees  in  the  road  and  con- 
fessed to  the  whole  dern  business.  He  didn't  ax 
for  mercy,  either,  but  just  begged  for  a  few  minutes 
to  pray.  The  boys  was  all  feeHn'  purty  good  over 
the  way  things  was  goin'  an'  was  in  for  some  fun, 
so  nobody  let  on  for  a  while,  an'  Sim  Cotes,  in  as 
solemn  a  voice  as  a  judge,  called  out  that  we'd  'low 
'im  three  minutes,  an'  we  all  set  down  on  the  grass 
like  Indians  smokin'  a  pipe  o'  peace,  an'  tuck  it 
in  Hke  a  show.  It  seemed  he  didn't  really  intend 
to  kill  old  Rose;  he  just  wanted  to  stun  'im  so  he 
could  get  what  he  had,  but  the  old  man  put  up  a 

193 


P  II  u  1     11  11  n  d  e  1 

regular  wild-cat  fight,  an'  was  yellin'  so  loud  for  help, 
that  he  had  to  settle  'im  to  save  his  own  skin." 

"Then  you  let  'im  go,"  Hoag  prompted.  "Hurry 
up,  I  don't  want  to  stay  here  all  night." 

"Yes;  some  o'  the  boys  was  in  for  givin'  the  poor 
devil  a  sound  lashin';  but  he  really  looked  like  he 
wasn't  strong  enough  to  stand  up  under  it,  an'  we 
didn't  dare  disable  'im,  so  when  we  explained  to 
'im  that  he  was  free  if  he'd  get  clean  out  o'  the 
country  an'  hold  his  tongue,  he  was  the  funniest 
lookin'  sight  you  ever  saw.  By  gum,  he  actually 
tried  to  Idss  our  hands;  he  crawled  about  on  his 
knees  in  the  road,  cryin'  an'  whimperin'  an'  beggin' 
the  Lord  to  bless  us.  It  actually  unstrung  some  o' 
the  boys — looked  like  they  hardly  knowed  what  to 
do  or  say.  The  tramp  started  off,  lookin'  back  over 
his  shoulder  like  he  was  afraid  somebody  would 
shoot,  an'  when  he  got  to  the  top  o'  the  rise  he 
broke  into  a  run  an'  he  hit  the  grit  like  a  scared 
rabbit." 

Trawley  laughed  impulsively;  but  no  sign  of 
amusement  escaped  Hoag.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
a  horse  and  buggy  down  the  road. 

"That  must  be  the  doctor,"  he  said.  "You  go 
on  to  town." 

"All  right,  all  right.  Cap,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
just  thought  I'd  stop  by  an'  let  you  know  how  it 
come  out.     Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  Hoag  gloomily  echoed,  and  he 
went  back  to  the  gate,  where  he  stood  waiting  for 
the  doctor. 

The  physician  was  a  man  jiast  middle  age,  full- 
bearded,  iron-gray,  and  stockily  built.  He  got  out 
of  his  buggy  with  the  deliberation  of  his  profession. 

103 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"How  is  the  child  now?"  he  asked,  as  he  hitched 
his  horse  to  the  fence. 

"I  don't  know,  Doc;  you'd  better  hurry  in  an* 
look  at  'im.     You  think  he  is  dangerous,  don't  you?" 

"I  thought  so  when  I  saw  'im;  but  I  can't  tell 
sure  yet.  Couldn't  get  here  a  bit  sooner — tried 
my  best,  but  couldn't." 

Hoag  opened  the  gate,  and  they  both  passed 
through.  On  the  still  air  the  trotting  of  Trawley's 
horse  fell  faintly  on  their  ears.  As  they  neared  the 
house  the  light  in  the  sick-room  was  turned  up  and 
Mrs.  Tilton  came  to  the  front  door. 

"Walk  in.  Doctor,"  Hoag  said,  and  he  remained 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  his  bare  head  catching  the 
silvery  beams  of  the  moon.  Hoag  heard  his  mother- 
in-law  speaking  in  a  low,  explanatory  tone,  as  she 
led  the  doctor  along  the  dark  hall. 

What  would  the  verdict  be?  Hoag  asked  himself. 
Other  men  had  lost  their  children,  why  should  not 
he — he,  of  all  men,  take  his  turn  at  that  sort  of 
fatality?  He  paced  the  grass  in  front  of  the  house 
impatiently.  He  shrank  from  seeing  the  child. 
There  was  something  in  the  small,  suffering  face 
which  he  felt  would  unman  him.  The  minutes 
seemed  to  drag  like  hours.  There  was  a  constant 
grinding  and  rumbling  of  feet  on  the  floor  within, 
the  mumbling  of  low  voices.  Hoag  strained  his 
ears  for  the  sound  of  Jack's  voice,  but  it  did  not 
come.  Perhaps — perhaps  the  little  fellow  was  sink- 
ing; children  died  that  way,  often  without  pain  or 
struggle.  Hoag  for  one  instant  leaned  toward  the 
hereditary  instinct  of  prayer,  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders  as  he  remembered  that  he  had  long  since 
given  all  that  up.     Belief  in  God  and  a  future  life 

104 


Paul     Run  del 

belonged  to  a  period  far  back  in  his  memory,  when, 
as  a  smooth-faced  youth,  he  had  erroneously  thought 
himself  converted  at  a  revival  in  which  the  whole 
countryside  had  given  itself  over  to  tears,  rejoicings, 
and  resolutions.  No;  if  Jack  was  dying,  that  was 
the  end  of  the  little  life — marvelous  as  it  was — it 
was  the  end,  the  very  end.  Hoag  sat  down  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  veranda,  gripped  his  big  hands 
between  his  knees,  and  stared  at  the  pale,  pitiless 
moon. 

The  sound  of  a  closing  door  fell  on  his  ears;  a 
heavy  step  rang  in  the  hall.  The  doctor  was  coming 
out.  Hoag  stood  up  and  faced  him  as  he  crossed 
the  veranda,  his  medicine-case  in  hand.  How 
damnably  placid  seemed  the  bearded  face;  how  like 
that  of  an  official  executioner  or  an  undertaker  bent 
on  mere  profit. 

"Well,  well?"  Hoag  gulped.     "Well,  how  is  it?" 

"I  had  my  scare  for  nothing."  The  doctor  bent 
his  body  to  look  around  a  tree  to  see  if  his  horse 
was  where  he  had  left  it.  "It  isn't  scarlet  fever. 
The  child  has  eaten  something  that  went  against 
him.  He  had  a  raging  fever;  but  it's  down  now, 
and  if  you  will  look  to  his  diet  for  a  day  or  two 
he'll  be  all  right." 

Hoag  said  nothing;  something  like  a  blur  fell  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  the  fence,  trees,  bam,  and  stables 
rose  and  fell  like  objects  floating  on  a  turbulent 
cloud.  "Good  night,"  he  heard  the  doctor  saying  as 
from  a  distance.  "Goodnight" — it  seemed  an  echo 
from  within  him,  rather  than  a  product  of  his  lips. 
The  blur  lifted;  he  steadied  himself,  and  stood 
watching  the  doctor  as  he  unhitched  his  horse  and 
got  into  the  buggy. 

8  105 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ON  this  same  night  certain  things  were  happen- 
ing at  Ralph  Rundel's  cottage.  The  hour  was 
late.  Paul,  who  was  suddenly  roused  from  the  pro- 
found slimiber  of  a  tired  toiler,  was  sure  of  this,  though 
he  had  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  exact  time, 

"Don't  you  dare  hit  'er,  Rafe  Rundel,  don't  you — 
don't  you,  I  say!"  was  the  cry  which  at  first  seemed 
to  the  boy  to  be  a  part  of  a  confused  dream,  and 
which  resolved  itself  into  distinct  utterance  as  his 
eyes  and  ears  gradually  opened. 

"I  wasn't  tryin'  to  hit  'er,  Mandy,  an'  you  know 
it."  It  was  Ralph  Rundel's  despondent  and  yet 
accusing  voice  which  broke  the  pale  stillness  of  the 
night.  "I  just  want  'er  to  tell  me  the  plain,  un- 
varnished truth,  an'  she's  got  to!  She  cayn't  be 
a  wife  o'  mine  an'  carry  on  like  that,  an'  do  it  under- 
hand. I  want  to  know  if  they  met  by  agreement. 
I  was  on  the  hill  an'  saw  Jeff  waitin'  at  the  creek 
ford.  He  had  no  business  thar,  an'  stood  behind 
the  bushes,  an'  kept  peepin'  at  our  house  till  she 
come  out  an'  went  down  to  'im.  Then  they  walked 
to  the  spring  an'  set  for  a  good  hour,  Jeff  bent  tow- 
ard 'er,  an'  she  was  a-listenin'  close,  an'  a-lookin' 
toward  the  house  every  minute  like  she  was  afeard 
somebody  would  come." 

It  was  Amanda  Wilks  who  now  spoke  as  the 
startled  boy  put  his  feet  on  the  floor  and  sat  on  the 
bed,  grimly  alert. 

io6 


Paul     Rundel 

"Looks  like  Rafe  is  axin'  a  reasonable  enough 
question,  Addie,"  she  was  heard  to  say.  "At  least 
it  seems  so  to  me,  an'  I  know  I  am  tryin'  to  be  fair 
to  both  sides,  so  I  am." 

"It  is  fair,"  Ralph  passionately  supplemented, 
"an'  if  she  is  honest  an'  wants  to  do  right  she  will 
talk  straight  an'  be  as  open  as  day.  As  my  wife 
the  law  gives  me  the  right  to — " 

"Law?  What's  law  amount  to  when  a  woman's 
plumb  miserable?"  Mrs.  Rundel  said,  in  a  low, 
rebellious  tone,  and  Paul  heard  her  bare  feet  thump 
on  the  floor  as  she  flounced  about  the  room.  "I 
hate  you.  I've  hated  you  all  along.  I  can't  remem- 
ber when  I  didn't  hate  you.  No  livin'  woman  with 
any  refined  feelin's  could  help  it.  I  want  liberty, 
that's  all.  I  won't  have  you  prowlin'  about  in  the 
woods  and  watchin'  me  like  a  hawk  every  time  a 
neighbor  speaks  decent  to  me.  Lemme  tell  you 
some'n;  you'd  better  never  let  Jeff  Warren  know 
you  make  charges  ag'in'  me  like  you  are  a-doin'. 
He'd  thrash  you  'in  an  inch  o'  your  life,  if  you  are 
married  to  me.  I'll  not  tell  you  why  I  happened  to 
go  down  to  the  spring.     That's  my  business." 

Paul  heard  his  father  utter  a  low,  despairing 
groan  as  he  left  the  room  and  stalked  through  the 
corridor  and  out  at  the  front  door.  Going  to  the 
window,  the  boy  looked  out  just  as  Ralph  turned 
the  corner  and  paused  in  the  moonlight,  his  ghastly 
profile  as  clear-cut  as  if  it  had  been  carved  in  stone. 
Paul  saw  him  raise  his  stiff  arms  to  the  sky,  and 
heard  him  muttering  unintelligible  words.  The 
window-sash  was  up,  the  sill  low  to  the  ground, 
and  dressed  only  in  his  night-shirt,  the  boy  passed 
through  the  opening  and  stood  on  the  dewy  grass. 

107 


Paul     Rundel 

There  he  paused  a  moment,  for  he  heard  his  aunt 
speaking  to  her  sister  admonishingly :  "Rafe's 
jest  got  a  man's  natural  pride  an'  jealousy.  You 
know  folks  in  a  out-o'-the-way  settlement  like  this 
will  talk,  an'—" 

"Well,  let  'em  talk!  Let  'em  talk!  Let  'em  talk!" 
the  wife  retorted,  fiercely.  "I  don't  care  what  they 
say.  I  won't  be  a  bound  slave  to  Rafe  Rundel  if  I 
did  marry  'im.  I'm  entitled  to  my  natural  likes  and 
dislikes  the  same  now  as  I  ever  was.  No  woman 
alive  could  care  for  a  man  hawkin'  an'  spittin'  an' 
coughin'  about  the  house,  with  water  in  his  eyes — 
sneezin'  an'  sniffiin'  an'  groanin',  as  peevish  as  a 
spoilt  child,  an'  wantin'  to  know  every  single  min- 
ute where  I  am  and  what  I  am  doin'.  I'm  finished 
with  'im,  I  tell  you — I'm  plumb  finished  with  'im, 
an'  he  knows  it.  Yes,  he  knows  it,  an'  that's  why 
he  was  in  sech  a  tantrum  just  now,  pullin'  my  bed- 
clothes off,  shakin'  his  fist  like  a  crazy  fool,  an' 
stormin'  around  in  the  dead  o'  night." 

The  pacific  voice  of  Amanda  Wilks  here  broke 
in;  but  Paul  did  not  wait  to  hear  what  she  was 
saying,  for  his  father,  with  bowed  and  shaking  form, 
was  tottering  away  in  the  moonlight  toward  the 
cow-lot.  Ralph  reached  the  rail  fence,  and  with 
an  audible  moan  he  bent  his  head  upon  it.  Paul's 
feet  fell  noiselessly  on  the  dewy  grass  as  he  crept 
toward  him.  Reaching  him  he  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Father,"  Paul  said,  softly,  "what's  the  matter? 
Are  you  sick?" 

Slowly  Ralph  Rundel  raised  his  head  and  stared 
at  his  son,  but  he  said  nothing.  His  tattered  night- 
shirt was   carelessly  stuffed   under   the  waistband 

io8 


Paul     Rundel 

of  his  gaping  trousers,  which  were  supported  by  a 
single  suspender  over  his  shoulder.  The  other  sus- 
pender hung  in  a  loop  over  his  hip.  His  grizzled 
head  was  bare,  as  were  his  attenuated  feet.  He  con- 
tinued to  stare,  as  if  he  had  no  memory  of  the 
speaker's  face,  his  lip  hanging  loose,  quivering,  and 
dripping  with  saliva.  The  damp,  greenish  pallor 
of  death  itself  was  on  him,  and  it  gleamed  like 
phosphorus  in  the  rays  of  the  moon.  A  tremulous 
groan  passed  out  from  his  low  chest,  and  his  head 
sank  to  the  fence  again. 

"Father,  father,  don't  you  know  me?  Paul! 
Don't  you  know  me?"  The  boy  touched  the  gray 
head;  he  shook  it  persuasively,  and  it  rocked  like 
a  mechanical  tiling  perfectly  poised.  The  man's 
knees  bent,  quivered,  and  then  straightened  up 
again. 

"Father,  father,  it's  me  —  Paul!  —  your  son! 
What's  the  matter?" 

Ralph  turned  his  face  slowly  to  one  side. 

"Oh,  it's  you! — my  boy!  my  boy!  I  thought — " 
He  looked  about  the  cow-lot  vacantly,  and  then 
fixed  his  all  but  glazed  eyes  on  his  son's  face,  and 
said:  "You  go  back  to  bed,  my  boy;  you  can't  do 
me  no  good — nobody  on  earth  can.  I'm  done  for. 
I  feel  it  all  over  me  like  the  sweat  o'  death." 

"Father,  tell  me" — Paul  stood  erect,  his  head 
thrown  back,  and  his  young  voice  rang  sharply  on 
the  still  air — "do  you  believe  that  dirty  whelp — " 

There  was  an  insane  glare  in  Rundel's  watery  eyes, 
and  his  head  rocked  back  and  forth  again. 

"He's  after  your  ma,  Paul."  Ralph  emitted  an- 
other groan.  "He's  took  with  'er  purty  face,  an' 
has  set  in  to  make  a  plumb  fool  of  'cr,  and  make 

109 


Paul     Rundel 

'er  hate  me.  He's  the  kind  o'  devil  that  won't  pick 
and  choose  for  hisself,  Hke  an  honest  man,  out  in 
the  open  among  free  gals  an'  women,  but  thinks 
that  nothin'  ain't  as  good  as  another  man's  holdin's. 
He  thinks  he  is  sorry  fer  'er  because  she's  tied  to  a 
sick  man;  but  it  hain't  that— it's  the  devil  in  'im!" 

The  boy  laid  his  arm  on  his  father's  shoulders; 
his  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  issued;  his  face  was 
rigid  and  white. 

"I  ain't  talkin'  without  grounds."  Ralph's  faint 
voice  trailed  away  on  its  wave  of  agony.  "Friends 
have  come  to  me  an'  reported  the  doin's  of  the  two 
at  singin'.  He  fetches  her  a  bunch  of  flowers  every 
day,  an'  they  set  an'  sing  out  o'  the  same  book  with 
the'r  heads  plumped  together.  He  walks  mighty 
nigh  all  the  way  home  with  her  through  the  woods, 
an'  sneaks  off  as  soon  as  they  git  in  sight  o'  the 
house.  He  makes  all  manner  o'  fun  o'  me — tellin' 
folks,  so  I've  been  told,  that  I  can't  last  long,  an' 
that  she  never  knowed  what  rale  healthy  love  was 
nohow." 

Paul's  hand  was  now  on  his  father's  head,  and  he 
was  gently  stroking  the  long,  thick  hair,  though  his 
eyes  were  blazing,  his  breast  heaving,  as  from  an 
inner  tempest. 

Ralph  turned  and  looked  toward  the  house.  The 
light  was  out  now,  and  there  was  no  sound. 

"I  reckon  she's  gone  back  to  sleep,"  Ralph  wailed, 
bitterly.  "What  does  she  care  how  I  feel?  She 
could  have  no  idea,  you  couldn't  neither,  Paul,  fur 
you  are  too  young.  But  maybe  some  day  you  will 
know  the  awful,  awful  sting  o'  havin'  the  world  look 
on  in  scorn,  while  a  big  strappin'  brute  of  a  daredevil 
an'  the  mother  o'  yore  child — oh,  my  God !  I  can't 

no 


Paul   Run  del 

stand  it — I  jest  cant!  I'd  die  a  million  deaths 
rather  than — it's  in  the  Rundel  blood,  I  reckon, 
planted  thar  deep  by  generations  an'  genc.ations  o' 
proud  folks.  I'm  goin'  to  kill  'im,  Paul.  I  don't 
know  when  or  how,  exactly,  but  it's  got  to  be  done, 
if  God  will  only  give  me  the  strength.  It  won't  be 
no  sin;  it  couldn't  be;  it  would  be  just  wipin'  out 
one  o'  the  slimy  vipers  o'  life." 

"If  you  don't,  I  will,  father.  I  swear  it  here  an' 
now,"  the  boy  solemnly  vowed,  removing  his  hand 
from  the  cold  brow  and  looking  off  in  the  mystical 
light  which  lay  over  the  fields. 

' '  Huh,  we  won't  both  have  to  do  it !"  Ralph  spoke 
as  if  half  dreaming,  certainly  not  realizing  his  son's 
frame  of  mind.  "It  never  would  be  any  satisfac- 
tion to  have  it  said  that  it  took  two  of  us  to  fix  'im, 
even  if  he  is  rated  high  on  his  fightin'  record.  No, 
that's  my  job;    you  keep  clean  out  of  it!" 

"Come  to  my  bed,  father."  Paul  caught  his 
arm  and  drew  him  gently  from  the  fence.  "You 
are  shakin'  from  head  to  foot ;  your  teeth  are  chatter- 
in',  an'  you  are  cold  through  an'  through." 

Ralph  allowed  himself  to  be  led  along;  now  and 
then  he  would  stumble  over  a  tuft  of  grass,  as  if 
he  had  lost  the  power  of  lifting  his  feet.  Once  he 
paused,  threw  his  arms  about  his  son's  shoulder,  and 
said,  almost  in  fright,  as  he  bore  down  heavily: 

"I  feel  odd,  powerful  odd.  I  feel  cold  clean 
through  to  my  insides,  like  my  entrails  was  tumin' 
to  rock.  I  can  hardly  git  my  breath.  I  don't 
seem  to — to  send  it  clean  down.  It  stops  in  my 
chest  like,  an'  I  am  all  of  a  quiver,  an'  weak,  an' 
dizzy-like.     I  can't  see  a  yard  ahead  of  me." 

"You'll  feel  better  when  you  are  in  bed,"  Paul 

III 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

said,  soothingly,  and  he  led  his  father  on  to  the 
quiet,  house  and  into  his  room.  He  undressed  him, 
wiped  the  dew  from  his  numb,  bloodless  feet  on  a 
towel,  and  made  him  lie  down, 

"I  feel  drowsy,"  Ralph  sighed.  "Everything  is 
in  a  sort  of  dreamy  jumble.  I  hardly  remember 
what  me'n  you  was — was  talkin'  about.  I'm  weak. 
I've  been  so  bothered  that  I  hain't  eat  much  in 
several  days." 

Presently  Paul  saw  that  he  was  asleep,  and  lay 
down  beside  the  still  form.  After  a  while  he,  too, 
fell  into  slumber,  and  the  remainder  of  the  night 
crept  along. 

The  first  hint  of  dawn  was  announced  by  the 
crowing  of  cocks,  the  far  and  near  barking  of  dogs, 
the  grunting  of  pigs,  the  chirping  of  early  birds, 
as  they  flew  about  in  the  dewy  branches  of  the 
trees.  Paul  waked  and  went  to  his  window  and 
looked  out.  The  gray  light  of  a  new  day  lay  like 
an  aura  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain.  The  recol- 
lection of  what  had  taken  place  in  the  night  flashed 
upon  him  with  startling  freshness.  He  recalled 
Jeff  Warren's  visage,  his  mother  in  her  dainty  dress, 
ribbons  and  flowers,  and  his  blood  began  to  throb 
and  boil.  In  a  storm  of  hot  pity  he  glanced  tow- 
ard his  father,  who  in  the  dark  comer  lay  as  still  as 
the  cracked  plastering,  against  which  his  grim  pro- 
file was  cast.  Suddenly  Paul  had  a  great  fear; 
he  held  his  breath  to  listen,  and  strained  his  eyes 
to  pierce  the  shadows.  Was  Ralph  Rundel  breath- 
ing? Did  ever  living  man  lie  so  still,  so  silent? 
Paul  went  to  the  bed,  drew  down  the  sheet,  and  bent 
over  the  face.  Eyes  and  mouth  open — Ralph  was 
dead,      Paul  shook  him  gently  and  called  to  him, 


Paul     R  II  n  d  e  1 

but   there   was   no   response.     The  body   was   still 
slightly  warm,  but  fast  growing  stiff. 

Quickly  dressing,  Paul  went  across  the  corridor 
and  knocked  on  the  door  of  his  aunt's  room. 

"What  is  it  now?  Oh,  what  do  you  want  now?" 
Amanda  called  out,  in  drowsy  impatience.  "You've 
kept  me  awake  nearly  all  night  with  your  fussin', 
an'  jest  as  I  am  gittin'  my  fust  bit  o'  rest — " 

"Aunt  Manda,  you'd  better  come — "  Paul's 
voice  faltered  and  broke.  "You'd  better  come  see 
if  you  think — " 

"What  is  it?  Oh,  what  is  it  now?"  He  heard 
her  feet  strike  the  floor  and  the  loose  planks  creak 
as  she  groped  her  way  to  the  door,  which  she  un- 
locked and  drew  open.  "It  ain't  nigh  day."  She 
cast  inquiring  eyes  toward  the  yard.  "What's  got 
into  you  wantin'  breakfast  earlier  an'  earUer  every 
momin'  you  live?" 

Paul  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat,  mutely 
jerked  his  head  toward  his  room.  ' '  I  think — I  think 
father's  dead,"  he  said,  simply. 

"Dead?  Dead?"  the  woman  gasped,  incredu- 
lously. She  stared  blankly  at  her  nephew,  and  then, 
holding  her  unbuttoned  nightgown  at  the  neck, 
she  strode  across  the  corridor  into  Paul's  room.  He 
followed  to  the  threshold,  and  dumbly  watched  her 
as  she  made  a  quick  examination  of  the  body.  She 
drew  herself  up,  uttered  a  little  scream,  and  came  to 
him  wringing  her  hands. 

"Oh,  God  will  punish  us!"  she  said.  "The  Al- 
mighty will  throw  a  blight  on  this  house!  He's 
gone,  an'  his  last  words  was  a  curse  on  your  ma, 
an'  on  me  for  spoilin'  'er.  O  God — God,  have 
mercy!     An'   he   went   with   revenge   in   his  heart 

113 


Paul     Rundel 

an'  hate  in  his  soul.  Oh,  Rafe's  gone — Rafe's 
gone!' 

Amanda  stood  leaning  against  the  wall  moaning 
and  ejaculating  bits  of  prayers.  The  door  of  Mrs. 
Rundel's  room  opened,  and  with  her  hair  rolled  up 
in  bits  of  paper  she  peered  out. 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired,  peevishly.  "What's 
the  matter?  Gone?  Did  you  say  he  was  gone? 
What  if  he  has  gone  ?  He's  been  threatening  to  leave 
all  summer.  He'll  be  back.  You  can  count  on 
that.  He  knows  a  good  thing  when  he  sees  it,  and 
he'll  lie  around  here  till  he  dies  of  old  age  or  dries 
up  an'  is  blown  away." 

"No,  he  won't  be  back!"  Paul  strode  to  her  and 
stood  coldly  staring  at  her.  "He's  dead.  He  died 
of  a  broken  heart,  an'  you  done  it — ^you  an'  Jeff 
Warren  between  you." 

' '  Dead — dead,  you  say  ?"  And,  as  if  to  make  sure, 
Mrs.  Rundel  stalked  stiffly  across  the  corridor  to 
Ralph's  body  and  bent  over  it.  They  saw  her  raise 
one  of  the  limp  hands  and  pass  her  own  over  the 
pallid  brow.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  drew  her- 
self erect  and  came  back  to  her  son  and  sister.  Her 
face  was  white  and  rigid;  the  coming  wrinkles  in 
her  cheeks  and  about  her  mouth  seemed  deeper 
than  ever  before.  She  faced  Paul,  a  blended  ex- 
pression of  fear  and  dogged  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  ever  dare  to — to  talk  to  me  like  you 
did  just  now,"  she  said,  fiercely.  "I  won't  stand  it. 
You  are  too  young  a  boy  to  dictate  to  me." 

"I  may  be  that,"  he  snarled,  "but  Fll  dictate  to 
somebody  else  if  I'm  hung  for  it.  You  hear  me — 
if  I'm  hung  for  it!" 

She    shrank    under    this    bitter    onslaught.     She 

114 


Paul     Rundel 

seemed  to  waver  a  moment,  then  she  went  into  her 
room,  lighted  her  candle,  and  began  to  dress. 

Her  sister  followed  and  stood  beside  her.  "Don't 
take  on,"  Amanda  said.  "Don't  go  an'  fancy  it  is 
yore  fault.  Paul  is  out  o'  his  head  with  grief  an' 
don't  know  what  he's  sayin'.  Rafe  was  a  sick, 
dyin'  man,  anyway;  his  mind  was  unhinged;  that 
was  plain  by  the  way  he  suspicioned  you.  Now, 
I'll  git  breakfast  an'  attend  to  everything;  don't 
set  in  to  cryin'  an'  make  yourself  sick;  what  is 
done  is  done,  an'  can't  be  helped." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LIKE  a  human  machine  obeying  the  laws  of 
-/habit,  Paul  went  about  his  usual  morning  du- 
ties, feeding  and  currying  the  horses,  taking  slop 
to  the  pigs,  driving  up  the  cow  from  the  pasture, 
and  chopping  wood  for  the  fire.  Amanda  came  to 
him  at  the  woodpile,  rolling  the  flakes  of  dough  from 
her  fingers.  The  first  direct  rays  of  the  sun  were 
breaking  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

"I'll  have  the  coffee  an'  biscuits  done  right  off," 
she  said,  in  a  motherly  tone,  which  seemed  to  be 
borrowed  from  some  past  memory  or  the  long- 
worn  habit  of  protecting  her  sister.  "I'll  call  you 
purty  soon.  Paul,  you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  I've  been  expectin'  it  for  a  long  time.  He's 
been  gettin'  peevish  an'  losin'  flesh  an'  strength. 
Then,  like  most  folks  in  that  fix,  he  let  his  fancy  run 
rife,  an'  that  hurried  him  on.  It's  awful — awful 
havin'  a  dead  person  right  here  in  the  house;  but  it 
comes  to  high  an'  low  ahke.  I  know  you  are  cut 
to  the  quick,  an'  inclined  to  fix  the  blame  on  some- 
body ;  but  that  will  wear  off  an'  you  '11  git  reconciled. 
You'll  miss  'im,  I  know — an'  that  sharp,  for  he 
leaned  on  you  as  if  you  an'  'im  had  swapped 
places." 

Paul  said  nothing.  He  filled  his  arms  with  the 
wood  and  started  into  the  kitchen.  Amanda  saw 
his  dull,  bloodshot  eyes  above  the  heap  as  he  turned. 

ii6 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

She  followed,  and  as  he  noiselessly  lowered  the  wood 
to  the  stone  hearth,  she  stood  over  him. 

"There  is  a  thing  that  must  be  attended  to,"  she 
said.  "I  sort  o'  hate  to  be  left  with  just  me  an' 
Addie  alone  with  him  in  thar  like  that;  but  you'll 
have  to  go  to  town  an'  order  a  coffin.  Webb  an' 
Wiggins  keeps  'em  at  the  furniture-store,  an'  in  hot 
weather  like  this  they  will  want  the  order  early. 
You  just  pick  out  the  sort  you  think  we  kin  afford 
— they're  got  all  grades — an'  they  will  trim  it.  If 
I  was  you  I'd  make  them  send  it.  It  would  look 
more  decent  than  for  you  to  haul  it  out  on  the 
wagon.  We'll  keep  your  poor  pa  till  to-morrow; 
it  won't  look  right  to  be  in  too  great  a  hurry;  thar 
is  sech  a  sight  o'  talk  these  days  about  bury  in'  folks 
alive,  here  among  the  ignorant  whites  an'  blacks." 

When  he  had  finished  his  morning's  work  Paul 
came  in  and  sat  down  at  the  table  to  the  coffee  and 
eggs  and  hot  cakes  his  aimt  had  prepared,  but  he 
ate  without  his  usual  relish.  He  was  just  finishing 
when  Abe  Langston,  a  neighboring  farmer,  a  tall, 
thin  man  about  forty  years  of  age,  with  long,  brown 
beard,  and  without  a  coat,  collar,  or  necktie,  ap- 
peared, hat  in  hand,  at  the  door. 

"We've  just  heard  it  over  our  way,"  he  said  to 
Amanda.  "I  told  my  wife  I'd  come  over  before  I 
set  in  to  cuttin'  hay  in  the  bottom.  Powerful  sud- 
den an'  unexpected,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  he  seemed  to  pass  away  in  his  sleep  like." 
Amanda  was  wiping  her  red  eyes  on  her  apron.  "It 
was  a  weak  heart,  no  doubt,  an'  it  is  a  comfort  to 
feel  that  he  never  suffered." 

"I'll  go  take  a  look  at  'im,"  Langston  said,  laying 
his  hat  on  the  door-sill.     "I  sent  my  oldest  gal  over 

117 


Paul     Rundel 

after  John  Tobines  an'  Andy  Warner,  an'  when  they 
git  here  we  three  will  lay  'im  out.  John's  handy 
with  a  razor — he  used  to  work  in  a  barber's  shop — 
an'  he'll  shave  the  pore  fellow  an'  trim  his  hair. 
Some  o'  the  young  men  an'  women  will  want  to 
set  up  here  to-night,  an'  give  you  an'  Addie  a  chance 
to  snatch  a  little  sleep." 

"That  will  be  obligin'  of  'em,"  Amanda  answered, 
still  wiping  her  eyes.  "You  kin  tell  'em  I'll  fix  a 
nice  snack  an'  some  coffee  to  sorter  freshen  'em  up. 
How  many  do  you  reckon  will  come?" 

"Oh,  I'd  fix  for  four  couples,  anyway.  Thar  is  a 
certain  crowd  that  always  count  on  sech  occasions — 
you  know  who  they  are  as  well  as  I  do,  I  reckon?" 

"Yes,  Polly  Long  an'  her  bunch."  Amanda  fol- 
lowed the  man  across  the  corridor  into  the  room 
where  the  corpse  lay,  and  as  Paul  was  leaving  he 
heard  her  continuing,  plaintively:  "Death  is  just 
the  awfulest,  awfulest  thing  we  come  across  in  this 
life.  Brother  Langston.  We  know  so  little — so 
powerful  Httle  about  it.  One  minute  we  see  the 
sparkle  of  the  soul  in  the  eye,  hear  a  voice  full  of 
life;  you  catch  a  smile,  or  a  knowin'  look,  an'  may- 
be the  next  minute  just  a  empty  shell  lies  before 
you.  Rafe  was  a  good,  patient  man,  an'  he  suffered 
a  lot,  fust  an'  last." 

"Did  he  make  his  peace?"  Langston  inquired. 
"That  is  the  fust  thought  I  have  when  a  body  dies. 
Do  you  think  he  was  all  right?  He  didn't  go  to 
meetin'  often,  an'  I  never  happened  to  hear  'im  say 
what  his  hopes  of  reward  was." 

"I  don't  know — I  really  don't  know,"  Amanda 
returned,  and  Paul,  lingering  in  the  kitchen  door- 
way, heard  her  voice  falter.     "Brother  Langston, 

ii8 


Paul     Rundel 

sometimes  I  was  bothered  purty  sharp  on  that  score. 
Him  and  Paul  both  used  to  repeat  some  o'  Jim 
Hoag's  terrible  sayin's  like  they  thought  they  was 
smart  an'  funny,  an'  neither  one  of  'em  ever  would 
read  the  Bible,  or  seek  spiritual  advice,  an'  sech  a 
thing  as  family  prayer,  or  a  blessin'  asked  at  the 
table  was  never  heard  in  this  house." 

"I  know."  The  masculine  voice  sounded  louder 
now,  as  if  its  owner  had  come  back  into  the  corridor. 
"That's  why  I  was  axin'.  Folks  cayn't  take  up 
notions  like  Hoag  has  in  a  God-fearin'  community 
like  our'n  an'  flaunt  'em  about  without  causin' 
comment.  My  own  opinion  is  that  Jim  Hoag  is  a 
devil  in  the  garb  of  a  man.  He's  lamt  Paul  all  the 
awful  things  the  boy  believes,  an'  a  man  that  will 
lead  the  young  off  like  that  ought  to  be  tarred  an' 
feathered  an'  rid  out  o'  the  community  on  a  sharp 
rail.  If  he  didn't  have  so  much  money  he'd  'a' 
been  called  down  long  ago." 

Paul  was  in  the  stable-yard  when  Amanda  came 
out  to  him. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "Your  pa  won't 
have  to  have  new  clothes;  his  Siinday  suit  will  do 
for  weather  like  this  when  I've  ironed  out  the 
wrinkles;  but  you  ought  to  buy  'im  some  black 
sHppers,  an'  a  pair  o'  white  store  socks  an'  a  plain 
black  necktie — they  keep  all  sech  at  the  furniture- 
store.  You  just  tell  'em  what's  lackin'  an'  they 
will  put  'em  in." 

.  She  glanced  at  her  nephew's  face  in  surprise,  for 
it  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  were  flashing  angrily. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  leaning  on  the 
fence  and  eying  him  in  growing  wonder. 

"I  heard  you  an'  Langston  talkin'  in  thar,  stand- 
119 


Paul     Rundel 

in'  right  over  'im,"  Paul  blurted  out,  "an'  him  cold 
an'  dead  an'  unable  to  take  up  for  hisse'f.  Make 
his  peace  nothin'!  He  died  before  he  could  settle 
the  things  he  had  to  settle.  If  thar  was  sech  a  fool 
thing  as  a  heaven,  how  could  he  enjoy  it  with  Jeff 
Warren  here  gloatin'  over  him?  But  that  will  be 
settled.  You  hear  me — that  will  be  settled,  an'  be- 
fore many  days,  too." 

"I  know  you  are  not  goin'  to  act  the  fool,  if  you 
are  just  a  hot-headed  boy,"  Amanda  said.  "You 
are  all  wrought  up  now  ag'in'  your  ma  an'  every- 
body; but  that  will  wear  off.  I  know  when  my 
own  father  died  I — " 

But  the  boy  refused  to  hear.  He  turned  into  a 
stall  and  began  to  put  a  bridle  on  a  horse,  which  he 
led  out  into  the  yard  with  only  a  blanket  on  its 
back.  There  was  uncurbed  fury  in  the  very  spring 
he  made  from  the  ground  to  his  seat.  His  face  was 
fire-red,  and  he  thrust  his  heels  against  the  horse's 
flanks  with  such  force  that  the  animal  gave  a  loud 
grunt  as  he  lurched  toward  the  open  gate. 

"Wait,  Paul,  wait!"  Amanda  cried  after  him. 
"You've  forgot  some'n.  I  wouldn't  stop  you,  but 
you  can't  do  without  it." 

He  drew  rein  and  glared  down  on  her. 

"You  haven't  got  the  measure  of — of  the  body. 
I  never  thought  of  it  just  now  when  Brother  Lang- 
ston  was  here,  an'  he's  gone  to  hurry  up  Tobines  an' 
Warner.  I'd  go  an'  do  it  myself,  but  it  ain't  ex- 
actly a  woman's  place.     I'll  hold  yo'  hoss." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  the  color  dying 
down  in  his  face.  Then,  with  obvious  reluctance, 
he  slid  off  the  horse  and  went  into  the  room  where 
the  corpse  lay  covered  with  a  sheet.     He  was  look- 

120 


Paul      R  u  n  d  e 1 

ing  about  for  a  piece  of  string  with  which  to  take 
the  required  measurement,  when  he  recalled  that 
he  and  his  father  were  exactly  the  same  height,  and, 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  he  was  turning  from  the  room 
when  an  uncontrollable  impulse  came  over  him  to 
look  upon  the  face  beneath  the  covering.  He  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  then,  going  to  the  bed,  he  drew 
the  sheet  down  and  gazed  at  the  white,  set  counte- 
nance. A  storm  of  pity  and  grief  broke  over  him. 
He  had  a  mother's  yearning  to  kiss  the  cold,  pale 
brow,  to  fondle  the  wasted  form,  to  speak  to  the 
closed  eyes,  and  compel  the  rigid  lips  to  utter  some 
word  of  recognition.  Glancing  furtively  toward  the 
door,  then  toward  the  window,  and  with  his  face 
close  to  the  dead  one,  he  said: 

' ' Don't  you  bother  about  Jef?  Warren,  father.  I'll 
attend  to  him.  I'll  do  it — I'll  do  it.  He  sha'n't  gloat 
over  you,  an'  you  like  this.     He  sha'n't — he  sha'n't !" 

His  voice  clogged  up,  and  he  tenderly  drew  the 
sheet  back  over  the  still,  white  face.  Across  the 
corridor  he  heard  his  mother  moving  about  in  her 
room;  but  the  door  was  closed,  and  he  could  not 
see  her.  Going  out,  he  took  the  bridle  from  Amanda's 
hands,  threw  it  back  on  the  neck  of  his  horse,  clutched 
a  collar-worn  tuft  of  the  animal's  mane,  and  sprang 
astride  of  its  back. 

"I  won't  have  to  bother  about  a  new  dress  for 
yore  ma,"  Amanda  remarked,  her  slow  eyes  study- 
ing the  boy's  grief-pinched  face.  "We  ain't  got 
time  to  get  one  read3^  an'  she  kin  put  on  my  black 
alpaca  an'  borrow  Mrs.  Penham's  veil  that  she's 
about  through  with.  I  know  she  didn't  wear  it 
two  Sundays  ago,  an'  I  reckon  her  moumin's  over. 
It's  in  purty  good  condition." 

9  121 


Paul     Rundel 

Paul  rode  toward  the  village.  In  the  first  cotton- 
field  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  way  the  two  Harris 
brothers  were  cutting  out  weeds  with  hoes  that 
tinkled  on  the  buried  stones  and  flashed  in  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sun.  They  both  paused,  looked 
at  him  steadily  and  half  defiantly,  and  then,  as  if 
reminded  of  the  gruesome  thing  which  had  come 
upon  him  in  the  night,  they  looked  down  and  re- 
sumed their  work. 

Further  on  was  the  farm-house  belonging  to  Jeff 
Warren,  and  at  the  well  in  the  yard  Paul  descried 
Warren  turning  the  windlass  to  water  a  mule  which 
stood  with  its  head  over  a  big  tub.  Paul  saw  the 
man  looking  at  him,  but  he  glanced  away.  He  swung 
his  heels  against  the  flanks  of  his  horse  and  rode  on 
through  a  mist  which  hung  before  his  sight. 

Paul  went  straight  to  the  furniture-store  and  gave 
his  order,  and  was  leaving  when  Mrs.  Tye  came 
hastily  across  the  street  from  her  husband's  shop. 
There  was  a  kindly  light  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice 
shook  with  timid  emotion. 

"I  saw  you  ride  past  jest  now,"  she  began.  "We 
heard  the  news  a  few  minutes  ago,  an'  me  an'  Si 
was  awfully  sorry.  He  told  me  to  run  across  an' 
beg  you  to  stop  at  the  shop  a  minute.  He  wants  to 
see  you.  I  don't  know  when  I've  seed  'im  so  upset. 
Thar,  I  see  'im  motionin'  to  us  now.     Let's  go  over." 

Paul  mechanically  complied,  and  as  they  turned 
she  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"Thar  is  nothin'  a  body  kin  say  that  will  do  a 
bit  o'  good  at  sech  a  sad  time,"  she  gulped.  "I've 
got  so  I  jest  hold  my  tongue  when  sech  a  blow  falls. 
But  I  wish  the  Lord  would  show  me  some  way  to 
comfort  you.     It  must  be  awful,  for  I  know  how  you 


Paul     Rundel 

doted  on  yore  pore  pa,  an'  how  he  worshiped  you. 
Maybe  it  will  comfort  you  if  I  tell  you  what  he  said 
to  me  t'other  day.  I  reckon  he  was  pulled  down  in 
sperits  by  ill  health  or  some'n,  for  he  told  me  that 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  he'd  'a'  killed  hisse'f  long 
ago.  Of  course  that  was  a  wicked  thought,  but 
I  reckon  he  hardly  knowed  what  he  was  sayin'.  He 
jest  couldn't  git  through  talkin'  about  you,  an'  the 
way  you  loved  'im  an'  looked  after  'im  at  all  times. 
That  will  be  a  comfort,  Paul — after  a  while  it  will 
all  settle  down  an'  seem  right — his  death,  I  mean; 
then  the  recollection  that  you  was  so  good  to  him 
will  be  a  sweet  memory  that  will  sustain  an' 
strengthen  you  all  through  life." 

They  had  reached  the  open  door  of  the  shop,  and 
Silas  rose  from  his  bench,  shaking  the  shavings  of 
leather  and  broken  wooden  pegs  from  his  apron.  In 
his  left  hand  he  held  the  coarse  shoe  he  was  repair- 
ing and  the  right  he  gave  to  Paul. 

"I  hain't  done  nothin'  but  set  here  an'  pray  since 
I  heard  it,"  he  began,  sympathetically,  his  rough 
fingers  clinging  to  Paul's.  "In  a  case  like  this  God 
is  the  only  resort.  I  sometimes  think  that  one  of 
the  intentions  of  death  is  to  force  folks  to  look  to 
the  Almighty  an'  cry  out  for  help.  That  seems  to 
me  to  be  proof  enough  to  convince  the  stoutest  un- 
believers of  a  higher  power,  for  when  a  blow  like 
this  falls  we  jest  simply  beg  for  mercy,  an'  we  know 
down  inside  of  us  that  no  human  aid  can  be  had,  an' 
that  help  naturally  ought  to  come  from  some'r's." 

Paul  made  no  response.     Mrs.  Tye  had  placed  a 

chair  for  him  near  her  husband's  bench,  and  the 

boy  sank  into  it,  and  sat  staring  dumbly  at  the  floor. 

"I've  got  some  hot  coffee  on  the  stove,"  Mrs. 

123 


Paul     Rundel 

Tye  said,  gently.  "You'd  feel  better,  Paul,  maybe, 
if  you'd  take  a  cup  along  with  some  o'  my  fresh 
biscuits  and  butter." 

He  shook  his  head,  mumbled  his  thanks,  and  for- 
got what  she  had  said.  He  was  contrasting  Jeff 
Warren  as  he  stood  at  the  well  in  the  full  vigor  of 
health  with  a  still,  wasted  form  under  a  sheet  in  a 
silent,  deserted  room.  Mrs.  Tye  left  the  shop,  and 
her  husband  continued  his  effort  at  consolation. 

"I  know  exactly  how  you  feel,  Paul,  for  I've  been 
through  it.  I've  served  my  Heavenly  Master  as 
well  as  I  know  how  ever  since  His  redeemin'  light 
broke  over  me  away  back  when  I  was  young;  but 
when  He  took  my  only  child  He  took  all  that  seemed 
worth  while  in  my  Hfe.  Folks  will  tell  you  that  time 
will  heal  the  wound;  but  I  never  waste  words  over 
that,  for  I  know,  from  experience,  that  when  a  body 
is  bowed  down  like  you  are,  that  it  ain't  the  future 
you  need  as  a  salve,  but  somethin'  right  now.  Thar 
is  one  thing  that  will  help,  an'  I  wish  I  actually 
knowed  you  had  it.  Paul,  empty-minded  men  Hke 
Jim  Hoag  may  sneer  and  poke  fun,  but  jest  as  shore 
as  that  Hght  out  thar  in  the  street  comes  from  the 
sun  thar  is  a  spiritual  flood  from  God  hisse'f  that 
pores  into  hearts  that  are  not  wilfully  closed  ag'in' 
it.  I  don't  want  to  brag,  but  I  don't  know  how  I 
can  make  it  plain  without  tellin'  my  own  experience. 
My  boy,  I'm  a  pore  man;  I  make  my  livin'  at  the 
humblest  work  that  man  ever  engaged  in,  an'  yet 
from  momin'  till  night  I'm  happy— I'm  plumb 
happy.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I  wouldn't  swap 
places  with  any  millionaire  that  ever  walked  the 
earth,  for  I  know  his  money  an'  gaudy  holdin's  would 
stand  betwixt  me  an*  the  glory  I've  got.    If  I  had 

124 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

an  idle  hour  to  spare,  do  you  know  whar  I'd  be? 
I'd  be  on  the  side  o'  that  mountain,  starin'  out  over 
the  blue  hills,  a-shoutin'  an'  a-singin'  praises  to 
God.  Some  folks  say  I'm  crazy  on  religion — let 
'em — let  'em!  History  is  chock  full  of  accounts  of 
great'  men,  learned  in  all  the  wisdom  of  earth — 
princes,  rulers,  poets,  who,  like  St.  Paul  an'  our  Lord, 
declared  that  all  things  which  was  not  of  the  spent 
was  vanity,  dross,  an'  the  very  dregs  an'  scum  of  ex- 
istence. So  you  see,  as  I  look  at  it — an'  as  maybe 
you  don't  just  yet — -yore  pa  ain't  like  you  think 
he  is.  You  see  'im  lyin'  thar  like  that,  an'  you  cayn't 
look  beyond  the  garment  of  flesh  he  has  shucked 
off,  but  I  can.  He's  beat  you'n  me  both,  Paul; 
his  eyes  are  opened  to  a  blaze  o'  glory  that  would 
dazzle  and  blind  our  earthly  sight.  Death  is  jest  a 
ugly  gate  that  we  pass  through  from  a  cloudy,  dark, 
stuffy  place  out  into  the  vast  open  air  of  Eternity. 
O  Paul,  Paul,  I  want  you  to  try  to  get  hold  of  this 
thing,  for  you  need  it.  This  is  a  sharp  crisis  in  yore 
life;  you've  let  some  things  harden  you,  an'  if  you 
don't  watch  out  this  great  stunnin'  blow  may  drag 
you  even  deeper  into  the  mire.  I  feel  sech  a  big 
interest  in  you  that  I  jest  can't  hold  in.  I  know 
I'm  talkin'  powerful  plain,  an'  uninvited,  too,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  Knowin'  that  you've  been  about  Jim 
Hoag  a  good  deal,  an'  rememberin'  little  remarks 
you've  dropped  now  an'  then,  I'm  afraid  you  hain't 
got  as  much  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God  as — " 

"Goodness  of  God!  Huh — poof!"  Paul  snorted, 
his  stare  on  the  ground. 

"Paul,  Paul,  don't,  don't  say  that!"  Tyc  pleaded, 
his  kindly  eyes  filling.  "I  can't  bear  to  hear  it 
from  a  young  boy  like  you.     Youth  is  the  time  most 

^2S 


Paul     Rundel 

folks  believe  in  all  that's  good;  doubts  sometimes 
come  on  later  in  life.  It  sounds  awful  to  hear  you 
say  sech  rebellious  things  when  you  stand  so  much 
in  need  of.  the  only  help  in  all  the  universe.'' 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  any  God,"  Paul  mut- 
tered, fiercely,  "and  if  I  did  I'd  not  believe  he  was 
a  good  one,  when  I  know  what's  took  place  an' 
what's  goin'  on.  The  wild  beasts  in  the  woods  come 
from  the  same  source  as  me,  an'  they  fight  for  what 
they  get;  bugs  and  worms  and  flying  things  and 
crawling  things  live  on  one  another.  That's  the 
only  way  for  us  to  do  if  we  expect  to  live.  The  only 
difference  in  men  and  beasts  is  that  men  can  remem- 
ber wrongs  longer  and  know  how  to  plan  revenge,  an' 
git  it." 

"Oh,  my  Lord!"  The  shoemaker  lowered  his 
head  and  seemed  to  be  praying.  Presently  he  looked 
up,  grasped  his  beard  with  his  blackened  fingers,  and 
pulled  his  lips  apart,  "I  see,  you  are  like  most  folks 
when  they  are  under  a  great,  fresh  grief.  I've  knowed 
some  o'  the  best  Christians  to  turn  square  ag'in'  the'r 
Maker  at  sech  times — especially  women  who  had  lost 
the'r  young  in  some  horrible  way — but  even  they'd 
come  around  finally  to  admit  that  God  knowed  best. 
Take  my  own  case.  Would  I  want  my  boy  back  now  ? 
No,  no,  Paul;  as  great  as  the  pride  an'  joy  would  be 
I  know  he's  in  better  hands  than  mine.  It's  hard 
on  you  now;  but,  sad  as  it  is,  this  may  result  in 
good — good  that  you  can't  begin  to  see  in  advance. 
If  we  had  the  all-seein'  eye  we  might  pass  judgment ; 
but  we  are  blind — blind  as  moles.  You  can't  see 
that  yore  pore  pa  is  better  off,  but  he  is — he  is.  I 
know  he  is — God  knows  he  is." 


CHAPTER  XV 

AT  the  end  of  the  main  street,  as  he  rode  home- 
i  ward,  Paul  saw  Ethel  Ma3^field  coming  toward 
him,  her  head  down  as  if  in  deep  thought.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  turn  aside,  to  avoid  meeting  her, 
but  he  saw  that  such  a  thing  would  be  unpardonable. 
In  spite  of  the  weight  that  was  on  him,  he  felt  the 
warm  blood  of  embarrassment  rushing  to  his  face 
as  the  distance  shortened  between  them. 

There  was  a  sweet,  startled  look  of  concern  in  her 
childish  eyes  as  she  raised  them  to  him. 

"Stop  a  minute,"  she  said;  and  as  he  awkwardly 
drew  rein  she  continued:  "I've  just  heard  about 
your  father.  Two  men  were  talking  over  there  by 
a  fence  on  the  side  of  the  road  and  I  listened.  Oh, 
it  is  awful,  awful!  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  for  they 
say  you  loved  him  so  much,  an'  were  always  so  good 
to  him." 

A  strange  sense  of  confused  helplessness  surged 
over  Paul.  As  she  looked  up  at  him  so  frankly  he 
feared  that  she  would  read  in  his  face  the  fact  that 
she  had  been  in  his  mind  almost  constantly  since 
their  meeting  that  day  in  the  meadow.  This  dis- 
turbed him,  and  also  the  realization  that  common 
politeness  demanded  some  sort  of  reply  in  accord 
with  the  refinement  of  her  easy  expression  of  sym- 
pathy. But  that  was  beyond  him.  He  felt  his 
blood  beating  into  his  eyes.  She  appeared  like  a 
spirit  thing  poised  upon  an  evanescent  cloud;  not 

127 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

for  him  save  in  fancy,  not  for  any  boy  outside  of 
dreams.  In  sheer  desperation,  and  under  the  in- 
tuition that  he  ought  not  to  sit  on  his  horse  while 
she  stood,  he  dismounted. 

'  "Thank  you,  thank  you."  He  seemed  to  hear 
the  words  as  if  they  were  spoken  by  other  lips  than 
his  own,  and  again  he  had  the  exquisite  sense  of 
nearness  to  her,  which  had  so  enthralled  him  before. 
A  wondrous,  delectable  force  seemed  to  radiate 
from  her  and  play  upon  his  whole  enraptured 
being. 

"I  have  never  seen  any  one  die,"  she  went  on, 
"and  they  say  you  were  there  alone  with  him.  Oh, 
how  very  sad,  and  you — you  are  not  much  older  than 
I  am.  Sad  things  are  coming  to  you  very  early. 
I  wish  I  could  say  something,  or  do  something, 
Paul,  but  I  don't  really  know  how.  I'm  just  a  girl. 
My  mother  seems  to  know  what  to  say  at  such  times, 
but  I  don't.  Grief  like  this  simply  overpowers  me. 
I  feel  as  if — as  if  I  must  cry,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you." 

He  saw  her  pretty  lips  quivering,  her  glorious 
eyes  filling,  and  he  dug  the  toe  of  his  worn  shoe  into 
the  sand  of  the  road.  He  was  becoming  conscious 
of  the  tattered  appearance  of  his  working-clothes, 
his  saddleless  horse,  his  rough,  perspiring  hands  and 
ciifHess  wrists.  How  odd  that  she,  who  was  so 
daintily  dressed,  so  wholly  detached  from  his  sordid 
life,  could  stand  talking  to  him  so  kindly,  so  inti- 
mately ! 

"You  are  very  good — very!"  he  stammered. 
"Better  than  anybody  else.  If  they  were  all  like 
you  it  wouldn't  seem  so — so  bad." 

"It  may  seem  forward  of  me  and  bold,"  Ethel  re- 
turned, "for  really  we  have  onlv  been  together  once 

128 


Paul     11  u  n  d  e  1 

before,  and  yet  (I  don't  know  how  yoii  feel) — but  / 
feel,  somehow.  Paul,  as  if  we  were  very  old  friends. 
I  admire  you  because  you  are  brave  and  strong. 
You  are  not  like — like  the  boys  in  Atlanta.  You 
are  different  (uncle  says  you  are  not  afraid  of 
anything  on  earth).  You  know  a  girl  could  not 
keep  from  wanting  that  sort  of  a  friend.  I  don't 
mean  that  I'd  want  to  see  you  hurt  ever — ever; 
but  it  is  nice  for  a  girl  to  feel  that  she  has  a  friend 
who  would  take  any  risk  for  her.  My  mother  says 
I  get  a  lot  of  notions  that  are  not  good  for  me 
out  of  novels.  Well,  I  don't  know  how  that  is,  but 
I  like  you,  and  I  am  very,  very  sad  about  your 
father.  If  I  had  not  met  you  here  I  would  have 
written  you  a  note.  Can  you  tell  me  when — when 
he  is  to  be  buried?" 

He  told  her  that  the  funeral  would  be  at  the 
village  church  the  next  day,  and  therewith  his  voice 
broke,  and  for  the  first  time  his  heart  heaved  and 
his  eyes  filled. 

"I  wanted  to  know  because  I  am  going  to  send 
some  flowers,"  she  said;  and  then,  observing  the  signs 
of  his  emotion  and  his  averted  face,  she  suddenly 
and  impulsively  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  be- 
tween both  of  her  own.  "Don't,  don't  cry!"  she 
pleaded.  ' '  I  couldn't  stand  to  see  it !"  Her  own  lashes 
were  wet  and  her  sweet  mouth  was  drawn  tight. 
"Oh,  I  wish  there  was  something  I  could  do  or  say, 
but  I  can't  think  of  a  thing.  Yes,  there  is  one  thing, 
and  it  must  help,  because  the  Bible  and  the  wisest 
men  say  it  will  at  such  times.  I  have  been  praying 
for  you,  and  I  am  going  to  keep  on  doing  it.  Paul, 
from  what  you  said  the  other  day,  I  suppose  you — 
have  never  been  converted?" 

129 


Paul     Rundel 

He  shook  his  head,. swallowed,  but  kept  his  face 
turned  away,  conscious  that  it  was  distorted  by 
contending  emotions. 

"I  have  been,"  she  said,  still  pressing  his  hand, 
"and,  O  Paul,  it  was  glorious!  It  happened  at  a 
camp-meeting  where  mother  took  me  and  my  cous- 
in, Jennie  Buford,  in  the  country  below  Atlanta, 
last  summer.  It  was  all  so  wonderful — the  singing, 
shouting,  and  praying.  I  was  so  happy  that  I  felt 
like  flying.  Since  then  I  have  felt  so  good  and 
secure  and  contented.  The  Bible  is  full  of  mean- 
ing to  me  now.  I  love  to  read  it  when  I  am  alone 
in  my  room.  It  is  beautiful  when  you  begin  to 
understand  it,  and  know  that  it  is  actually  the  Word 
of  our  Creator.  I  am  sure  I  shall  lead  a  Christian 
life,  as  my  mother  is  doing.  It  has  made  Jennie 
happy,  too.  We  are  like  two  twins,  you  know. 
We  have  been  together  nearly  every  day  since  we 
were  babies.  There  is  only  a  fence  between  our 
houses  in  Atlanta,  and  she  sleeps  with  me  or  I  with 
her  every  night.  She  was  sick  last  winter,  and  they 
thought  she  was  going  to  die.  She  thought  so,  too ; 
she  told  me  so,  but  would  not  tell  her  mother  be- 
cause she  would  be  so  broken-hearted.  I  prayed 
for  Jennie  all  that  night — all  night.  I  hardly 
stopped  a  minute." 

"And  she  didn't  die?"  Paul  looked  at  her  with 
a  glance  of  mild  incredulity  in  his  eyes. 

"No;  the  doctor  said  she  was  better  and  she  got 
well.  It  would  have  killed  me  if  she  had  been 
taken,  I  love  her  so  much.  We  are  so  much  alike 
that  I  often  read  her  thoughts  and  she  reads  mine. 
Many  and  many  a  time  we  have  told  each  other 
exactly  what  we  were  thinking  about." 

130 


Paul     1\  Li  n  d  e  1 

"Thought  transference,"  he  said.  "I've  read 
about  that.     It  may  be  true." 

Ethel  now  released  his  hand  and  flushed  slightly. 
"Excuse  me,"  she  faltered,  her  lashes  touching  her 
cheeks.     "I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing." 

It  was  his  turn  to  color  now,  and  they  stood  awk- 
wardly facing  each  other.  She,  however,  recovered 
herself  quickly. 

"I  am  going  to  pray  for  you  more  and  more  now," 
she  went  on,  soothingly.  "It  will  surely  help  you. 
I  know  that  God  answers  prayers  when  they  are 
made  in  the  right  spirit.  He  must  help  you  bear 
this  sorrow,  and  He  will — He  will." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  Paul  muttered,  his 
wavering  eyes  on  the  road  leading  between  zigzag 
rail  fences  on  to  his  home.  "I  must  be  going  now. 
I've  got  a  good  many  things  to  attend  to." 

"Of  course,  I  know — I  know,"  Ethel  responded, 
gravely. 

A  wagon  was  approaching  from  the  direction  of 
the  village.  It  was  drawn  by  two  sturdy  mules, 
which  thrust  their  hoofs  into  the  dust  of  the  road 
so  deeply  that  a  constant  cloud  of  the  fine  particles 
hovered  over  the  vehicle.  A  negro  man  wearing 
a  tattered  straw  hat,  soiled  shirt  and  trousers,  and 
without  shoes,  was  driving.  Ethel  caught  Paul's 
hand  impulsively,  and  drew  him  and  his  horse  to  the 
side  of  the  road. 

"Wait  till  they  pass,"  she  said.  "Oh,  what  nasty 
dust!" 

She  saw  him  staring  at  the  wagon,  a  rigid  look 
on  his  face.  "It's  the  coffin,"  he  explained.  "It  is 
going  out  home." 

The  wagon  rumbled  on.     There  was  an  unpainted 

131 


Paul     Run  del 

wooden  box  behind  the  negro's  seat,  and  on  it 
rested  a  plain  walnut  coffin,  thickly  coated  with 
dust.  The  sun  had  warmed  the  new  varnish,  and 
there  was.  an  odor  of  it  in  the  air. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  sad!"  Paul  caught  the  words  from 
the  averted  lips  of  his  companion.  "I  wish  I  could 
do  something,  or  say  something,  but  I  can't." 

Again  his  despair  fell  upon  him.  As  he  mounted 
his  horse  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  a  moving 
thing  that  was  dead  in  all  its  parts.  He  couldn't 
remember  that  he  had  ever  tipped  his  hat  to  any 
one  in  his  life,  and  yet  he  did  so  now  gracefully 
enough.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  reply  to  the 
words  she  had  so  feelingh/  uttered,  but  the  muscles 
of  his  throat  had  tightened.  A  great  sob  was  well- 
ing up  within  him  and  threatening  to  burst.  He 
started  his  horse,  and  with  his  back  to  her,  his 
head  bent  toward  the  animal's  neck,  he  slowly  rode 
away. 

"Poor  boy!"  Ethel  said,  as  the  mules,  the  wagon, 
the  coffin,  and  Paul  floated  and  vanished  in  the 
mist  before  her  eyes.  She  turned  and  moved  on 
toward  the  village,  her  head  lowered,  softly  crying 
and  earnestly  praying. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ACCORDING  to  rural  custom  the  young  men 
L  and  young  women  of  the  neighborhood  came 
that  evening  to  keep  watch  over  Ralph  Rundel's 
body.  In  an  open  coffin  resting  on  two  chairs,  it 
occupied  the  center  of  the  room  in  which  he  died. 

Amanda  had  been  busy  all  day  cooking  dainties 
— pies,  cakes,  custards,  and  making  cider  from 
apples  gathered  in  the  orchard.  She  had  swept  and 
dusted  the  house  throughout,  put  the  candles  into 
their  places,  cleaned  and  filled  the  lamps,  and  al- 
tered her  black  dress  to  fit  the  slender  form  of  her 
sister,  who  had  been  in  her  room  all  day,  refusing 
to  show  herself  to  the  constant  stream  of  curious, 
inquiring  visitors — men,  women,  and  children  who 
sat  about  the  front  and  rear  doors,  leaned  on  the 
fences  of  the  yard  and  cow-lot,  and  even  invaded  the 
kitchen. 

As  for  Paul,  no  one  seemed  to  notice  him,  and  of 
sympathy  for  him  little  was  expressed.  Mute  and 
dejected  he  moved  about,  attending  to  his  father's 
former  duties  as  well  as  his  own. 

The  night  fell.  The  stars  came  out.  There  was 
a  low  hum  of  good  cheer  and  merriment  from  the  as- 
sembled company  inside.  To  escape  it,  Paul  slipped 
behind  the  house  and  threw  himself  down  on  the 
grass  sward  beneath  the  apple-trees.  His  awful 
sorrow,  weird  and  gruesome,  for  which  there  was  no 
outlet,  gave  him  actual  physical  pain. 

133 


Paul     Rundel 

There  was  singing  within  the  house.  The  young 
jDersons  were  practising  hymns  for  the  funeral  ser- 
vice the  next  day.  Mistakes  were  made,  and  there 
was  merry,  vSpontaneous  laughter,  which  grated  on 
the  boy's  ears.  He  buried  his  face  in  the  cool, 
fragrant  grass,  and  thus  subdued  the  rising  sob  of 
which  he  was  ashamed.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  saw 
the  exquisite  face  of  Ethel  Mayfield,  but  even  it  held 
scant  comfort,  for  how  could  such  as  she  belong  to 
such  deplorable  surroundings?  The  tones  of  her 
gentle  voice,  as  she  promised  to  pray  for  him, 
seemed  a  part  of  some  vague  dream  from  which 
sordid  fact  had  roused  him. 

' '  Prayers  ? "  he  sneered .  ' '  What  puny  mortal  c  ould 
pray  this  away,  or  undo  the  damnable  thing  even  by 
the  weight  of  a  hair  ?  There  isn't  any  God  to  pray  to 
— there  isn't  anything  but  pain,  torment,  and  death." 

There  was  a  tentative  step  on  the  grass.  Amanda 
was  groping  her  way  around  the  well.  He  saw  her 
peering  here  and  there  in  the  shadows  under  the 
trees.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  on  seeing  him,  as  he 
suddenly  sat  up  and  turned  his  face  toward  her. 
"You  gave  me  a  scare.  At  sech  a  time  a  body  is 
apt  to  think  they  see  ghosts,  whether  they  do  or 
not.  I've  been  lookin'  high  an'  low  for  you,  an' 
axin'  the  company  whar  you  was  at.  You  hain't 
had  no  supper,  have  you?" 

He  answered  briefly  in  the  negative. 

"Well,  come  on  in  the  kitchen,"  she  pursued. 
"I've  kept  some  'taters  and  pork-chops  hot,  an' 
thar's  plenty  o'  cold  buttermilk." 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  he  said,  impatiently, 
and  even  roughly.  "I  couldn't  swallow  a  bite  to 
save  my  life — not  to  save  my  life,  I  couldn't!" 

134 


Paul     Ruiidel 

Her  hands  on  her  hips,  Amanda  stared  down  at 
him.  "This  ain't  a-goin'  to  do,  Paul,"  she  gently- 
protested.  "This  ain't  no  time  for  you  to  pout  an' 
be  cranky.  You  are  our  only  man  now.  Yore  ma's 
shet  up  in  her  room  with  a  mad  cryin'  spell  every 
half -hour,  an'  I  have  to  lay  down  my  work  an'  run, 
pacify,  an'  pet  'er.  She's  got  all  sorts  o'  finicky 
notions  in  'er  head  that  folks  are  a-talkin'  about  her 
an'  a  certain  party.  She  heard  'em  a-laughin'  in 
thar  jest  now,  an'  actually  started  in  to  give  'em  a 
piece  o'  'er  mind.  I  got  to  'er  in  time — thank  the 
Lord!  She's  now  in  bed  cryin'  like  'er  heart  is 
broke." 

"Huh,  I  see,  I  see!"  Paul  sniffed.  "An'  well  she 
may  be  afraid  o'  talk,  an'  you  too,  for  bringing  her 
up  as  you  have.  Folks  say  she's  jest  a  doll,  and  she 
is — she  is,  and  a  fool  flimsy  one  at  that!" 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  listen  to  you,  boy,"  iVmanda 
broke  in,  firmly.  "You  are  too  young  an'  inex- 
perienced to  talk  that  way  about  the  woman  that 
fetched  you  into  the  world  an'  gave  you  what  life 
you  got.  If  your  ma  was  petted  an'  sp'ilt,  that  was 
my  fault,  not  her'n,  an'  bein'  sp'ilt  only  makes  sech 
things  as  this  go  harder  with  'er.  If  her  an'  yore 
pa  wasn't  the  most  lovin'  match  that  could  be 
imagined,  that  wasn't  her  fault,  nor  his'n  cither. 
God  made  'em  both,  an'  for  all  I  know  He  may 
have  fetched  'em  together,  an'  in  makin'  a  mess  o' 
that  He  didn't  act  no  wuss  than  in  lettin'  some  other 
folks — folks  that  I  know  about — live  a  lifetime  with- 
out any  sort  o'  try  at  the  game.  Now,  jest  shet  up, 
an'  he'p  me  tote  this  sad  thing  through.  I  got  to 
go  set  the  table  for  them  folks,  an'  then  I'll  slide 
into  bed.     Whar  do  you  intend  to  sleep?     That's 

135 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about.  That  crowd  has 
got  yore  room.  I  can  lay  you  a  pallet  down  on 
the  floor  in  the  kitchen.  It  would  be  sort  o'  hard, 
but—" 

"I'm  going  to  stay  outside,"  he  told  her.  "I'm 
going  down  to  the  haystack.  The  house  is  too  hot, 
anyway;  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  in  there  with  all 
that  ding-dong  and  racket." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  in,"  answered  Amanda,  who  was 
really  not  listening  to  his  observations.  "It  won't 
hurt  you  to  sleep  out  once  on  such  a  warm  night, 
anyway,  an'  they  are  making'  a  lot  o'  noise.  They 
don't  get  many  such  chances  through  the  year.  It 
is  the  fust  time  I've  fixed  for  young  folks  in  a 
long  time.  Thar's  one  pair  in  thar" — Amanda 
tittered — "that  will  set  up  housekeepin'  inside  o' 
six  months.  Mark  my  predictions.  I  ketched  'em 
a-huggin'  on  the  front  steps  as  I  come  out." 

When  his  aunt  left  him  Paul  threw  himself  back 
on  the  grass  and  gazed  up  at  the  sky  and  the  far-off 
blinking  stars.  How  unreal  seemed  the  dead  face 
and  stark  form  of  his  father  as  he  had  last  looked 
upon  it!  Could  it  be  actually  all  that  was  left  of 
the  gentle,  kindly  and  patient  parent  who  had  al- 
ways been  so  dear?  Whence  had  flown  the  soft, 
halting  voice,  the  flash  of  the  eye,  the  only  caressing 
touch  Paul  had  ever  known?  That — that  thing  in 
there  boxed  and  ready  for  burial  was  all  there  ever 
was,  or  ever  could  be  again,  of  a  wonderfully  appeal- 
ing personality,  and  to-morrow  even  that  would  sink 
out  of  sight  forever  and  forever. 

There  was  an  audible  footfall  at  the  fence  near 
the  farther  side  of  the  cottage.  Paul  sat  up  and 
stared  through  the  semi-darkness.     It  was  a  tall, 

136 


Paul     Rundel 

slender  figure  of  a  man  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat. 
He  was  cautiously  moving  along  the  fence,  as  if  try- 
ing to  look  into  the  room  where  the  corpse  lay. 
Suddenly  a  stream  of  light  from  within  fell  on  his 
face.  It  was  Jeff  Warren.  Paul  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  stood  panting,  his  muscles  drawn. 

"Don't,  don't!"  a  voice  within  him  seemed  to 
caution  him.     "Not  now — not  now!     Be  ashamed!" 

At  this  juncture  some  one  called  out  in  a  low,  sub- 
dued  tone : 

"Is  that  you,  Jeff?" 

"Yes,  Andy.     Kin  I  come  in  thar  with  you  all?" 

"I  dunno;  wait  a  minute,  Jeff."  Andrew  Warner 
emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  house  and  advanced 
to  the  fence.  "I  railly  don't  believe  I  would,  Jeff, 
if  I  was  you.  We've  got  a-plenty,  an'  they  all  in- 
tend to  spend  the  night." 

"I  see,  I  see.  Well,  I  didn't  know  how  you  was 
fixed,  an'  I  heard  you  all  a-singin'  clean  across  the 
bottom.  Say,  Andy,  Mrs.  Rundel  ain't  in  thar  with 
you,  is  she?" 

"No,  we  hain't  any  of  us  seed  'er;  she's  been  shet 
up  tight  all  day." 

There  was  a  noticeable  pause.  Paul  crept  closer 
and  stood  behind  a  trunk  of  an  apple-tree,  the 
branches  of  which,  laden  with  unripe  fruit,  almost 
touched  the  ground.  He  could  still  see  the  two 
men,  and  their  voices  were  quite  audible. 

"I  see,  I  see."  Jeff  Warren  was  speakin<:;;  now. 
"Have  you  heard  anybody  say — do  you  happen  to 
know,  Andy,  how  she  is — takin'  it?" 

"Purty    hard,    purty    hard,    it    looks    Hke,    Jeff". 
We've  heard  'er  cryin'  an'  takin'  on  several  times; 
she  seems  powerful  upset." 
10  137 


Paul     Rundel 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Warren  repeated,  and  Paul  saw 
him  lean  toward  his  companion.  "Say,  Andy,  I 
want  you  to  do  me  a  favor,  if  you  will.  I  want 
you  to  git  Mrs.  Rundel  to  come  out  here  a  minute — 
jest  a  minute.  You  needn't  let  on  to  anybody  else. 
The  little  woman  must  be  awful  troubled,  an'  me 
an'  her  are  powerful  good  friends.  I  reckon  if  you 
told  'er  I  was  out  here,  maybe  she — " 

Paul  saw  the  other  man  turn  his  head  and  stand, 
staring  irresolutely  at  the  house.  "I  can't  do  that, 
Jeff,"  he  was  heard  to  say  presently.  "That  may 
be  all  right  from  the  way  you  look  at  it,  but  I 
don't  want  no  hand  in  such.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  wait 
— that's  all,  I'd  wait.  Out  of  respect  for  what  folks 
would  say  or  think,  I'd  put  it  off.  Seems  to  me  hke 
she'd  want  that  'erse'f — in  fact,  I'm  shore  any  sen- 
sible woman  would." 

"All  right,  Andy,  all  right!"  Warren  answered, 
awkwardly,  as  his  hand  tugged  at  his  mustache. 
"I  was  jest  sorter  bothered,  that's  all.  I'll  take 
yore  advice.  I  know  you  are  a  friend  an'  mean 
well.  I'll  go  home  an'  git  to  bed.  As  you  say,  I 
kin  afford  to  wait.  What  surprises  me  is  to  hear 
you  say  she's  takin'  on.  I  reckon  she's  sorter  upset 
by  havin'  a  death  in  the  house.  Rafe  was  at  the  end 
o'  his  string,  anyway;  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"If  the  poor  fellow  had  lived  he  would  have  called 
you  to  taw,"  was  the  significant  and  yet  not  im- 
friendly  reply.  "The  devil's  Hght  was  in  his  eye, 
Jeff.  Rafe  Rundel  was  talkin'  a  lot  an'  growin' 
wuss  an'  wuss." 

"I  knowed  all  that,  too,"  Warren  was  heard  to 
say.  "His  wife  kept  me  posted.  Well,  well,  so 
long,  Andy!     I'll  git  to  bed." 

138 


Paul     Rundcl 

"Not  now,  not  now!"  Paul's  inner  voice  cau- 
tioned, as  with  actual  lips,  and  invisible  hands 
seemed  to  detain  him.  "Wait,  wait;  there  is  plenty 
of  time!"  He  leaned  against  the  tree  and  saw 
Warren's  form  disappear  in  the  starHght.  The  man's 
confident  whistle  came  back  on  the  hot,  still  air  as 
he  strode  along  the  road,  becoming  more  and  more 
indistinct  in  the  misty  distance. 

Paul  went  down  to  the  hay-field,  looking  here  and 
there  for  a  bed  to  lie  upon.  Presently  he  found  a 
heap  of  freshly  cut,  succulent  clover,  full  of  the 
crushed  perfume  of  the  white  and  pink  blossoms, 
and  damp  and  cool  with  the  dew.  Upon  this 
lair  he  sank,  his  tense  young  face  upturned  to  the 
stars.  How  he  loathed  the  silly  woman  who  had 
borne  him!  How  he  detested  the  happy-go-lucky 
man  who  had  caught  her  fancy!  How  he  yearned 
for  the  living  presence  of  the  dead !  His  throat  felt 
tight.  Unshed  tears  seemed  to  trickle  down  within 
him.  There  was  a  dull  aching  about  his  heart. 
Again,  as  in  a  dream,  the  gentle  face  of  Ethel  May- 
field  came  before  him.  Her  voice  was  as  sweet  and 
soothing  as  transcendent  music.  The  lovely  child 
had  said  she  was  going  to  pray  for  him.  Perhaps 
even  now  she  was  doing  so;  and  she  had  declared 
that  prayers  were  answered.  The  belief  was  silly. 
It  was  like  an  inexperienced  little  city  girl  to 
entertain  such  thoughts,  yet  what  she  had  said 
and  the  way  she  had  said  it  were  strangely  com- 
forting. A  fiercely  fought  sob  broke  within  him. 
Tears  swept  down  his  cheeks  and  trickled  into  the 
clover.  The  pain  within  him  lessened.  He  became 
drowsy.  The  vision  of  the  child  with  her  beautiful 
hair  and  eyes  became  an  airy,  floating  thing;  the 

139 


Paul     Rundel 

heavens  were  full  of  sweet  musical  laughter.  Ethel 
seemed  to  be  taken  up  into  a  sunlit  cloud,  and  for 
a  moment  was  hidden  from  view.  Then  he  saw  her 
returning.  She  was  not  alone.  Holding  her  hand 
was  Ralph  Rundel — Ralph  Rundel  transfigured, 
spirit-like,  and  yet  himself.  He  was  full  of  the 
glow  of  youth.  There  were  no  lines,  no  shadows 
in  his  face.  His  body  was  erect;  he  was  smiling 
at  his  son  in  a  fathomless,  eternal  way. 

"If  they  tell  you  I'm  dead,  don't  you  believe  a 
word  of  it,"  he  said.     "For  I  ain't— I  ain't!" 

Paul  awoke  with  a  start.  The  moon  was  rising; 
the  whole  landscape  was  flooded  with  the  pale  light 
of  a  reflected  day.  Subdued  laughter  and  the  drone 
of  voices  came  from  the  window  of  the  room  where 
the  body  lay. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

EARLY  in  the  morning  following  the  funeral 
Hoag  sent  Cato  with  a  message  to  Paul. 
There  was  some  work  to  be  done,  and  the  boy  was 
to  come  at  once  and  see  about  it.  Mrs.  Rundel,  in 
her  black  dress,  was  near  and  heard  the  negro 
speaking,  but  she  turned  indifferently  into  her 
room  and  closed  the  door. 

"Well,  I'd  go,"  Amanda  advised  her  nephew, 
"Mopin'  around  home  like  this  won't  do  any  good. 
At  sech  a  time  a  body  ought  to  keep  the  hands  an' 
feet  an'  even  the  brain  busy.  I'd  go  stark  crazy 
if  I'd  allow  myself  to  set  an'  brood.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  see  yore  pore  pa's  white  face  everywhar 
I  turn,  an'  when  I  ain't  seein'  that  I  seem  to  hear 
his  voice  talkin'  like  nothin'  out  o'  the  way  had 
happened.  I  even  git  a  whiff  o'  his  tobacco  now  an' 
then.  Do  you  know,  I  think  maybe  death  is  made 
horrible  like  this  to  warn  each  of  us  of  what  is  ahead. 
Me'n  you,  as  little  as  we  count  on  it,  have  got  to 
be  put  away  exactly  like  Rafe  was,  an'  we  may  not 
have  any  more  notice  than  he  had,  neither.  Some 
o'  the  sanctified  folks  doubt  whar  he's  gone,  but  I 
don't — much.  Somehow  I  can't  believe  that  he's 
gone  to  a  bad  place,  because  he  had  sech  a  hard  time 
of  it  here  for  sech  a  long,  long  time.  His  pride  was 
cut  to  the  quick,  an'  he  had  a  lot  more  o'  that  than 
most  folks  knowed  about.  Of  course,  you  can't 
remember  his  young  sparkin'  days  like  I  do.     He 

141 


Paul      Rundel 

used  to  dress  as  fine  as  a  fiddle  an'  held  his  head 
powerful  high;  but  time,  an'  poverty,  an'  trouble, 
an'  one  thing  or  other,  kept  pullin'  it  down  an' 
down,  till  it  struck  the  pillow  he  died  on.  Well, 
well,  he's  gone,  an'  we  '11  miss  'im.  I  shall,  I  know, 
for  I  already  do,  an'  they  say  the  worst  time  ain't 
always  right  after  the  buryin'.  Thar's  always 
a  stir  and  excitement  over  puttin'  a  person  away 
that  keeps  you  from  lookin'  the  thing  square  in  the 
face." 

Fires  of  anger  and  resentment  were  smoldering 
in  the  boy's  breast,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  turned 
down  the  road  to  Hoag's.  He  found  the  planter  mov- 
ing about  in  the  bark-strewn  tan-yard  between  the 
vats,  the  black  contents  of  which  were  on  a  level  with 
the  ground.  He  was  giving  blunt  orders  to  three  or 
four  negroes  who  were  piling  up  and  sorting  out  a 
great  heap  of  green  hides.  The  day  was  dry  and  hot, 
and  a  disagreeable  odor  of  decaying  flesh  was  on 
the  still  air.  He  noticed  Paul,  and  carelessly  nod- 
ded, but  for  a  moment  was  too  busy  to  speak  to 
him.  He  held  a  note-book  in  his  hand,  in  which 
he  had  found  some  mistakes  of  record  and  calcula- 
tions. They  were  his  own  errors,  but  he  was  no 
less  angry  for  that.  Finally  he  approached  Paul, 
and  as  he  moved  was  actively  scratching,  erasing, 
stabbing  the  paper  with  his  pencil,  and  muttering 
oaths. 

"How  the  hell  can  I  do  head-work,"  he  growled, 
giving  the  boy  a  blazing  glance,  "an'  have  to  watch 
these  black  devils  like  a  hawk  all  the  time?  The 
minute  my  back  is  turned  they  set  down  an'  sulk 
an'  shirk.  They  need  a  thousand  lashes  on  their 
bare   backs.     That's   the   only   thing   they   under- 

142 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e  1 

stand.  Look  how  that  whelp,  Sambo,  is  skulkin'. 
I  hit  'im  with  a  piece  o'  plank  just  now,  an'  he  thinks 
he's  threatening  me.  Huh!  I  know  'em  from  the 
ground  up.  Did  Cato  tell  you  I  wanted  to  see 
you?': 

"Yes,  an'  I  come  right  over,"  Paul  stolidly  re- 
plied. 

Hoag  closed  his  note-book,  keeping  the  pencil 
between  the  leaves,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 
"I  saw  you  comin'  back  from  the  grave^^ard  yester- 
day, an'  I  decided  Fd  try  to  find  regular  work  for 
you.  I  kin  always  depend  on  you  gittin'  a  job  done, 
an'  that's  sayin'  a  lot.  You  hain't  got  a  lazy  bone 
in  your  body,  if  I  do  say  it,  an'  it  will  be  the  makin' 
of  you  in  the  long  run.  Now,  my  mill-race  has 
washed  in  till  the  flow  is  gittin'  sluggish  an'  thin. 
The  bottom  of  it,  for  fully  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  has 
got  to  be  shoveled  out  an'  lowered  to  an  even  grade. 
It  will  take  you  a  month  at  least,  but  it  will  be 
regular  work.  The  dam's  all  right,  so  we  don't  have 
to  bother  with  that.  I  want  you  to  come  over  every 
day  after  breakfast,  an'  then  go  to  my  house  for 
yore  dinner.  It  will  save  you  the  walk  home,  an' 
you  kin  git  in  more  time.  How  would  you  like  the 
job  at  the  old  wages?" 

"I'm  willin',"  Paul  answered,  Hstlessly. 

"Well,  pick  you  out  a  spade  in  the  tool-house 
right  now,  an'  go  to  the  dam  an'  begin  to  work 
toward  the  mill.  The  mill's  shut  down,  an'  the 
race  bed's  just  wet  enough  to  make  the  shovelin' 
soft.  Some  o'  the  banks  are  purty  steep  an'  you  '11 
have  to  throw  purty  high,  but  you  are  equal  to  it." 

Paul  went  at  once  to  the  mill-dam.  The  work 
was  really  arduous,  but  the  spot  was  shaded  by 

143 


Paul     Rundel 

thickly  foliaged  trees,  and  the  shallow  water,  in 
which  he  stood  in  his  bare  feet,  cooled  his  blood. 
Bending  under  his  heavy  implement  filled  with  the 
heavier  mud  he  worked  like  a  machine,  the  sweat 
streaming  from  him,  and  constantly  conscious  of 
that  strange,  aching  vacancy  in  his  heart  which 
nothing  could  fill. 

At  noon  he  put  down  his  spade  and  went  to  Hoag's, 
as  he  had  often  done  before,  for  his  lunch.  No  one 
else  was  in  the  dining-room,  and  Mrs.  Tilton  brought 
him  his  dinner,  putting  it  before  him  in  a  gentle, 
motherly  way. 

"I  told  Aunt  Dilly  to  let  me  wait  on  you,"  she 
said,  a  note  of  sympathy  creeping  into  her  voice. 
"I  was  sorry  I  couldn't  get  out  to  the  funeral  yes- 
terday. I've  got  Jackie  to  watch  now,  an'  he's 
just  gettin'  on  his  feet,  after  his  spell.  His  mother 
ain't  a  bit  well,  either;  she  ain't  touched  hardly  a 
bite  since  he  was  so  bad  off.  I  think  she  ought 
to  go  to  Atlanta  to  consult  a  special  doctor,  but 
Jim  won't  hear  to  it.  He  says,  when  a  body  gits 
too  sick  for  home  treatment  their  natural  time's 
come,  anyway,  an'  the  money  would  be  throwed 
away.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  about 
your  pa.  I  know  how  much  you  both  thought  of 
each  other.  La,  he  used  to  come  here  while  you 
was  choppin'  wood  on  the  mountain,  an'  set  in  the 
kitchen  door  an'  talk  an'  talk  with  tears  in  his  old 
eyes  about  how  sorry  he  was  not  to  be  stronger,  so 
you  wouldn't  have  to  work  so  hard.  He  said  you  was 
the  best  boy  that  ever  lived.  Now,  I'm  just  goin' 
to  shet  up,"  Mrs.  Tilton  said,  regretfully.  "I  see 
you  are  about  to  cry."  She  went  to  the  window 
quickly  and  looked  out  into  the  yard.     "I  see  Jackie 

144 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

makin'  his  mud-pies.  Oh,"  she  turned  to  Paul, 
"thar's  something  I  wanted  to  say.  You  left  your 
gun  here  t'other  day.  It's  loaded,  an'  I  don't  like 
to  see  it  around.  Jackie  might  git  hold  of  it.  I 
wish  you  would  take  it  home." 

"I'll  take  it  to  work  with  me  now,"  Paul  promised, 
"and  take  it  home  from  there." 

Paul  toiled  diligently  that  afternoon  till  the  sun 
was  down.  He  had  just  come  out  of  the  water,  put 
on  his  shoes,  and  with  his  gun  under  his  arm  was 
starting  home,  when  Hoag  appeared  on  the  embank- 
ment of  the  race  and  surveyed  the  work  which  had 
been   done. 

"Good,  good;  prime,  prime!"  he  said,  approving- 
ly. "You've  done  as  much  as  a  couple  of  buck 
niggers  would  have  done  in  twice  the  time.  Keep 
up  that  lick  an'  you  '11  reach  the  sluice  earlier  than 
I  counted  on.  I  won't  split  hairs  with  you  on  the 
pay  for  this  job.  If  it  goes  through  at  this  rate 
I'll  tack  on  something  extra." 

Paul  said  nothing.  He  tried  to  feel  grateful  for 
the  praise  he  had  received,  but  he  was  too  tired  in 
body  and  mind  to  care  for  anything.  Throughout 
the  long  day  he  had  constantly  deliberated  over  the 
thought  that  it  woiild  now  be  impossible  for  him 
to  continue  the  life  he  was  leading.  With  the  death 
of  his  father  his  heart  and  soul  seemed  to  have  died. 

Hoag  joined  him  as  he  walked  homeward,  the 
gun  under  his  arm. 

"I  could  see  the  graveyard  from  the  hill  yester- 
day," he  remarked,  "an'  I  picked  you  out  in  the 
bunch.  You  looked  powerfully  lonely,  an'  the 
thought  struck  me  that  you  was  about  the  only 
real    mourner.     Women   don't   grieve   for  any  but 

H5 


Paul     Rundel 

their  own  babies,  an'  them  two  from  your  house 
would  have  acted  about   the   same   at   any   other 
funeral.     I  was  sorry  for  your  daddy,   Paul.      He 
never  made   much   headway  in  the  world,  but  he 
deserved  a  better  shake  o'  the  dice.     In  his  last  days 
he  toted  an  awful  load.     He  used  to  talk  purty  free 
to  me — ^just  Hke  a  child  would  at  times.    He  talked 
purty  plain  to  me,  I  reckon,  because  he  knowed  I 
hain't  a  speck  o'  use  for  the  damn  snake-in-the-grass 
that  was  takin'  sech  a  low,  underhanded  advantage 
of  him  behind  his  back.      You  needn't  repeat  this; 
I'm  telHn'  it  just  to  you  in  private.     If— you  see, 
Pa^l — if  it  ever  does  come  to  words  betwixt  me  an' 
Jeff  Warren,  I'll  have  to  shoot  'im  as  I  would  a  dog, 
an'  a  thing  hke  that  is  troublesome,  especially  when 
I  look  on  'im  as  mud  under  my  feet.     I'd  hate  to 
have  to  stand  trial  for  killin'  a  puppy,  an'  the  law 
would  demand  some  form-o'  settlement.     Your  pa 
would  have  killed  'im  if  he  lived.     I  was  lookin'  for 
it   every   day;    he   was   lyin'   low  for   his   chance. 
Preachers,  slobberin'  revivahsts,  an'  fools  Hke  old 
Tye  will  talk  to  you  about  turnin'  the  other  cheek; 
but  the  great,  all-important  first  law  of  hfe  is  to 
fight  for  what  you  git,  hold  on  to  it  when  you  git 
it,  an'  mash  hell  out  of  everything  that  tries  to  run 
over  you.     That's  been  my  rule,  an'  it  works  hke 
a  charm.     If  I'd  been  your  daddy  I'd  have  shot  that 
dirty  whelp  two  months  ago." 

They  had  reached  the  point  v/here  their  ways 
parted.  The  gray  twilight  was  thickening.  Hoag's 
big  white  house  gleamed  through  the  trees  surround- 
ing it.  There  were  Hghts  in  the  kitchen  and  dining- 
room.  All  Nature  seemed  preparing  for  sleep.  The 
tinkling  of  sheep  and  cow  bells  came  drowsily  to 

146 


Paul     Randel 

the  ear;  the  church-bell,  a  creaking,  cast-iron  affair, 
was  ringing  for  the  singing-class  to  meet. 

"Well,  so  long,"  Hoag  finished,  with  a  wave  of 
his  fat  hand  in  the  dusk.  "Set  in  bright  an'  early 
in  the  momin'  an'  let's  see  how  many  yards  you'll 
wipe  out  before  sundown." 

Paul  walked  on,  so  weary  now  that  the  gun  he  was 
carrying  almost  slipped  from  his  inert  arm.  Pres- 
ently his  own  home  came  into  view,  beyond  the  field 
of  com  Ralph  Rundel  had  planted  and  hoed  so 
feebly.  Paul's  heart  sank  into  the  very  ooze  of 
despair.  How  incongruous  was  the  thought  that 
his  father  would  not  be  at  the  gate  to  meet  him,  as 
had  been  his  habit  for  so  many  years!  The  boy 
stopped  in  a  corner  of  the  rail  fence  at  the  roadside 
and  leaned  on  his  gun.  An  indescribable  pain, 
which  was  at  once  physical  and  mental,  had  his  whole 
young  being  in  a  crushing  grasp.  The  kitchen  door 
was  open,  and  the  red  logs  of  an  open  fire  shone 
out  on  the  sward  about  the  house.  Tree-frogs  were 
snarling,  fireflies  were  flashing  here  and  there  over 
the  dewy  meadows  like  tiny,  short-lived  meteors. 
Paul  heaved  a  sigh,  stifled  a  groan,  bit  his  lip,  and 
trudged  on. 

As  he  got  nearer  to  the  house,  he  suddenly  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  two  figures,  that  of  a  man  and 
a  woman,  were  standing  at  the  bars  of  the  barn- 
yard. He  recognized  the  white-clad  form  on  the 
inside  as  his  mother's.  The  tall,  slender  man  with 
the  broad  hat  and  square  shoulders  was  Jeff  War- 
ren— that  would  have  been  plain  even  if  his  voice 
in  some  indistinct  utterance  had  not  been  heard. 
The  blood  of  fury,  goaded  to  the  point  of  insanity, 
raged  within  the  youth.     He  felt  its  close,  hot  pres- 

H7 


Paul     Rundel 

sure  above  his  eyes,  and  a  red  veil  fell  before  his  sight. 
Hoag's  recent  words  rang  in  his  ears.  Revenge, 
revenge !  Yes,  that  was  the  only  thing  worth  having. 
Paul  bent  lower.  His  gun  trailed  the  ground  like 
the  gun  of  a  pioneer  hunter.  He  crept  silently  for- 
ward, keeping  the  fence  between  him  and  the  pair, 
till  he  was  close  enough  to  overhear  the  colloquy. 
It  was  Jeff  Warren's  voice  and  his  suave,  daredevil 
tone. 

"Oh,  I  know  the  boy  hates  me.  I've  seed  it  in 
the  little  scamp's  face  many  a  time.  Rafe  must  'a' 
put  'im  up  to  it  when  his  mind  was  so  flighty;  but 
we'll  straighten  him  out  between  us  when  we  git 
things  runnin'  smooth.  He'll  think  I'm  a  rip- 
snortin'  stepdaddy  when  I  git  through  with  'im." 

The  hot  pressure  on  Paul's  brain  increased. 
Pausing  in  a  corner  of  the  fence,  he  grasped  his 
gun  in  both  hands  and  cocked  it  with  tense,  deter- 
mined fingers.  His  father's  dead  face  rose  before 
him.  It  seemed  to  smile  approvingly.  Hoag's 
words  came  to  him  like  the  advice  of  an  oracle.  He 
strained  his  ears  to  hear  what  his  mother  was  say- 
ing, but  her  low  utterance  failed  to  reach  him. 
Jeff  Warren  was  turning  away,  his  broad  hat  gal- 
lantly swung  toward  the  ground. 

"Well,  I'll  see  you  ag'in  'fore  long,"  he  said 
merrily.  "I  know  how  you  feel,  but  all  that  will 
soon  wear  off.  We  kin  wait  a  decent  time,  but 
I'm  in  the  race,  I  tell  you.  I'll  talk  all  them 
notions  out  o'  your  purty  head." 

Paul  saw  his  mother  vanish  in  the  dusk,  and, 
merrily  intoning  the  tune  of  a  hymn,  Warren  came 
on  toward  Paul.  On  he  strode,  still  swinging  his 
hat,     Paul  heard  him  softly  chuckling. 

148 


Paul     Rundel 

"Halt,  you  dirty  coward!"  Paul  cried,  as  he 
stepped  in  front  of  him,  the  gun  leveled  at  the 
broad  chest. 

"What — what?  Good  God!"  Warren  gasped. 
"Put  down  that  gun,  you  young  fool!  Drop  it,  I 
say,  or  I'll—" 

Warren  was  about  to  spring  forward  as  the  only 
means  of  self-protection,  but  before  he  could  do  so 
there  was  a  flash,  a  ringing  report,  a  puff  of  smoke, 
and  with  a  groan  Warren  bent  forward,  his  hands 
on  his  breast.  He  swayed  back  and  forth,  groan- 
ing. He  reeled,  tottered  sideways,  made  a  stren- 
uous effort  to  keep  erect,  then  fell  forward,  gasping 
audibly,  and  lay  still. 

Paul  lowered  his  gun,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
looking  at  the  fallen  man.  His  blood  was  wildly 
beating  in  his  heart  and  brain.  There  was  a  barking 
of  dogs  far  and  near.  Glancing  toward  the  house, 
he  noticed  the  forms  of  his  mother  and  aunt  framed 
by  the  kitchen  doorway,  the  firelight  behind  them. 

"It  may  be  somebody  shootin'  bats" — Amanda's 
voice  held  a  distinct  note  of  alarm — "but  I  was  shore 
I  heard  somebody  speak  sharp-Hke  just  before  the 
shot  was  fired.     Let's  nm  down  thar  an'  look." 

They  dropped  out  of  sight.  Paul  heard  the  patter 
of  their  feet,  knew  they  were  coming,  and,  for 
no  reason  which  he  could  fathom,  he  retreated  in 
the  direction  from  which  he  had  come.  As  if  in 
a  flash  he  caught  and  held  the  idea  that,  having 
done  his  duty,  he  would  turn  himself  over  to  an 
officer  of  the  law,  as  he  had  read  of  men  doing  in 
similar  circumstances. 

He  had  gone  only  a  few  hundred  yards  when  he 
heard  the  two  women  screaming  loudly ;  and  why  he 

149 


Paul     Rundel 

did  so  he  could  not  have  explained,  but  he  quick- 
ened his  gait  into  a  slow,  bewildered  sort  of  trot, 
the  gun  still  in  his  hands.  Perhaps  it  was  due  to 
the  thought  that  he  wanted  voluntarily  to  give  him- 
self up  before  any  one  should  accuse  him  of  trying 
to  flee.  He  was  nearing  Hoag's  bam,  and  thinking 
of  making  a  short  cut  to  the  village  across  the  fields, 
when  a  man  suddenly  burst  from  the  thicket  at  the 
side  of  the  road  and  faced  him.  It  was  Hoag  him- 
self. 

"Hold  thar!"  he  cried,  staring  through  the  dusk 
at  Paul.  "What's  all  that  screamin'  mean?  I 
heard  a  gun  go  off,  an'  rememberin'  that  you — say, 
did  you —  Good  God !  What  you  comin'  back  this 
way  for?" 

"I've  killed  Jeff  Warren,"  Paul  answered,  calmly. 
"I'm  goin'  to  Grayson  to  give  myself  up." 

"Good  Lord,  you  don't  say — why,  why — "  Hoag's 
voice  trailed  away  into  silence,  silence  broken  only 
by  the  voices  of  the  two  women  in  the  distance 
calling  for  help. 

"Yes,  I  shot  'im — you  know  why;  you  yourself 
said—" 

Hoag  suddenly  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  Paul's 
arm.  The  boy  had  never  seen  his  employer  turn 
pale  before,  or  show  so  much  agitation.  "Looky' 
here,  you  didn't  go  an' — an'  do  that  because  I — on 
account  o'  anything  I  said.  Shorely  you  didn't — 
shorely  you  didn't!  Come  into  the  thicket,  quick! 
Folks  will  be  passin'  here  in  a  minute.  Them  fool 
women  will  rip  the'r  lungs  out.  Say,  you  didn't 
really  kill  'im,  did  you — actually  kill  'im?" 

Paul  avoided  his  eyes.  "You  go  back  there  an' 
see  if  I  didn't,"  he  said,  doggedly. 

150 


Paul     R  a  n  d  c 1 

Hoag  stared  incredulously  for  a  moment,  then, 
with  a  firm  grip  on  Paul's  arm,  he  drew  him  deeper 
into  the  thicket. 

"Something's  got  to  be  done,"  he  panted.  "If 
you  give  yourself  up  for  trial  they  will  worm  out  o' 
you  that  I  said — that  I  was  talkin'  to  you,  an' — 
Looky'  here,  boy,  do  you  know  what  this  means? 
Are  you  plumb  out  o'  your  senses?" 

"I  don't  care  what  it  means,"  Paul  retorted.  "I've 
put  him  out  o'  the  way  for  good  and  all." 

"Good  Lord,  you  are  a  cool  un!  Wait  here;  don't 
stir!  I'll  come  back.  I'll  run  down  thar  to  make 
sure." 

Hoag  moved  excitedly  toward  the  road.  He  had 
just  reached  it  when  a  man  came  running  past  at 
full  speed  in  the  direction  of  the  village.  "Hold, 
hold!"  Hoag  cried.     "What's  wrong?" 

The  runner  slackened  his  speed  a  little;  but  did 
not  stop.     It  was  Abe  Langston. 

"Somebody's  shot  Jeff  Warren  down  thar  by  the 
fence.  He's  as  dead  as  a  door-nail.  I'm  goin'  to 
send  out  the  alarm  an'  git  the  sheriff." 

In  a  cloud  of  self-raised  dust  Langston  dashed 
away.  Hoag  stood  hesitating  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  back  to  Paul,  finding  him  seated  on  the  de- 
caying trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  the  gun  resting  on  his 
slender  knees.     Hoag  stood  before  him. 

"You've  got  to  git  out  o'  this,"  he  panted,  ex- 
citedly. "You've  done  a  thing  that  the  court  will 
hold  you  responsible  for.  I  ain't  sure  you  was 
justified  nohow.  The  fellow  was  just  in  love, 
that's  all.  A  jury  will  call  it  unprovoked,  cold-blood, 
deliberate,  what-not.  You  ain't  in  no  fix  to  fight 
it,  an'  you'd  be  a  plumb  idiot  to  stay  here  an'  let 

i5t 


Paul     Run  del 

'em  lay  hold  of  you.  The  only  sensible  thing  for 
you  to  do  is  to  show  a  clean  pair  o'  heels,  an'  git 
out  for  good  an'  all.  You  don't  seem  overly  satis- 
fied here  with  them  women  on  your  hands  nohow, 
an'  the  world  is  big  and  wide.  I  don't  want  my 
name  used — mind  that.  If  you  do  git  caught  an' 
fetched  back,  I  hope  you'll  have  the  decency  not 
to  lug  me  an'  this  advice  in  even  under  oath.  I'm 
tryin'  to  help  you.  Make  a  bee-line  through  the 
mountains  to  North  Carolina  an'  board  the  first 
train.  Throw  that  gun  down.  Don't  be  caught 
red-handed;    it  would  be  a  plumb  give-away." 

"What's  the  use?"  Paul  shifted  his  feet,  and 
raised  his  sullen  eyes. 

"Thar's  a  heap  o'  use,"  Hoag  returned,  im- 
patiently. "You  ma3^  not  think  so  now,  but  you 
will  after  you've  laid  in  that  dang  dirty  jail  in 
town,  an'  been  tuck  to  court  to  be  gazed  at  by  the 
public,  with  no  money  to  pay  fees  with,  no  friends 
on  hand,  an'  nothin'  before  you  but  to  be  hung  by 
the  neck  till  you  are  dead,  dead,  dead.  Take  my 
advice.  Git  away  off  some'r's  in  the  world,  change 
your  name,  bum  yore  bridges  behind  you,  an' 
start  life  'new  all  for  yoreself  without  any  load  like 
the  one  you've  always  had  like  a  millstone  round 
your  neck." 

Paul  rose  to  his  feet,  rested  the  stock  of  his  gun  on 
the  trunk  of  the  tree;  he  looked  off  through  the  twi- 
light  wistfully. 

"You  really  think  that  would  be  best?"  he  fal- 
tered. 

"It  certainly  will,  if  you  kin  manage  to  git  away," 
Hoag  said.  "Why,  if  you  stay  here,  you  will  be  in  a 
damn  sight  wuss  fix  than  the  skunk  you  shot.     He's 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

out  o'  his  trouble,  but  if  you  stay  here  yours  will 
just  be  beginnin'." 

"Well,  I'll  go,"  Paul  consented.  "I  can  get  away 
all  right.     I  know  the  woods  and  mountains." 

"Well,  throw  your  gun  down  behind  that  log  an 
make  off.  Say,  if  they  press  you  hard  on  your  way 
through  the  country,  an'  you  find  yourself  near  the 
farms  of  Tad  Barton,  Press  Talcot,  Joe  Thomas,  or 
old  man  Jimmy  Webb,  say  this  to  'em — tell  'em  I 
said —  No,  I  won't  give  you  no  password.  I 
haven't  got  the  right  to  do  it  without  due  form. 
It's  ag'in'  the  rules;  but  you  tell  either  of  'em  that 
I  said  put  you  out  of  sight,  give  you  grub  or  a  place 
to  sleep,  an'  that  I  said  pass  you  along  to  the  rail- 
road. Got  any  money?  Here  is  five  dollars.  I 
owe  you  that  much,  anyway,  and  it's  all  I  happen 
to  have  in  my  pocket.     Now,  you  hit  the  grit." 

Paul  took  the  money  and  indifferently  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket.  Hoag  held  out  his  hand.  "I 
don't  want  you  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  I  had 
anything  much  ag'in'  the  feller  you  shot;  that's 
done  away  with  now.  We've  had  one  or  two  little 
scraps,  but  they  didn't  amount  to  anything.  Say" 
— Hoag  pointed  to  the  creek — "if  I  was  you  I'd 
wade  along  that  watercourse  for  a  mile  or  two.  The 
sheriff  might  take  a  notion  to  put  bloodhounds  on 
your  track,  an'  the  stream  will  wash  away  the  scent. 
Good-by.  Make  the  best  of  it.  I'd  ask  you  to 
drop  me  a  line,  but  that  wouldn't  be  safe  for  me 
or  you  either.  Cut  this  section  clean  out — it's  been 
tough  on  you,  anyway.  You  can  make  a  livin'. 
You've  got  a  great  head  on  you  for  Icamin' — I've 
heard  plenty  o'  sensible  folk  say  so.     Good-by." 

They   parted.     Hoag   went   deliberately   toward 

11  153 


Paul     Rundel 

the  constantly  growing  group  where  Jeff  Warren 
had  fallen.  He  had  almost  reached  it  when  he  met 
Aunt  Dilly,  who  had  been  anxiously  inquiring  for 
him.  She  was  whimpering  and  wiping  her  eyes  on 
her  apron. 

"Oh,  Marse  Hoag,"  she  cried,  "I'se  been  searchin' 
fer  you  everwhar.  Dey  want  you  up  at  de  house 
right  off." 

"Want  me?     What's  the  matter?" 

"I  dunno,  suh;  but  Miz  Hoag  drapped  off  ter 
sleep-like  in  'er  chair,  en  her  ma  cayn't  wake  'er 
up.  Cato  done  run  fer  de  doctor.  Suppen's  wrong, 
siih,  suppen  powerful  wrong.  Hit  don't  look  lak 
des  er  faintin'  spell." 

Hoag  stifled  an  oath  of  impatience,  glanced  at  the 
silent  group,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
homeward.  At  the  gate  he  saw  Mrs.  Tilton  waving 
her  hands  wildly  in  a  signal  for  him  to  hurry. 

' '  She's  dead !"  she  sobbed.  ' '  She's  growing  cold. ' ' 
Hoag  passed  through  the  gate  which  she  held  open. 

"Keep  the  baby  away,"  he  said.  "There  is  no 
use  lettin'  'im  look  at  her.  He's  too  young  to — to 
see  a  thing  like  that." 


Part     II 


CHAPTER  I 

SEVEN  years  passed.  It  was  early  summer. 
Externally  James  Hoag  had  changed.  He  was 
a  heavier  man;  his  movements  were  more  sluggish, 
his  hair  was  turning  white,  his  face  was  wrinkled 
and  had  the  brown  splotches  indicative  of  a  dis- 
ordered liver.  There  was  on  him,  at  times,  a  de- 
cided nervousness  which  he  more  or  less  frankly, 
according  to  mood,  attributed  to  his  smoking  too 
much  at  night  and  the  habit  of  tippling.  He  had 
grown  more  irritable  and  domineering.  Beneath  the 
surface,  at  least,  he  had  strongly  objected  to  his 
mother-in-law's  continuing  to  look  to  him  for  sup- 
port after  her  daughter's  death.  But  Mrs.  Tilton 
had  told  him  quite  firmly  that  she  now  had  only 
one  duty  in  life,  and  that  was  the  care  of  her  grand- 
child. Jack;  and  Hoag,  quick,  harsh,  and  decided 
in  his  dealings  with  others,  knew  no  way  of  refusing. 
He  had  really  thought  of  marrying  again;  but 
the  intimate  presence  of  the  mother-in-law  and  his 
inability  to  quite  make  up  his  mind  as  to  which 
particular  woman  of  his  acquaintance  could  be 
trusted  not  to  have  motives  other  than  a  genuine 
appreciation  of  himself  had  delayed  the  step.  In- 
deed, he  had  given  the  subject  much  thought,  but 
objections  more  or  less  real  had  always  arisen. 
The  girl  was  too  young,  pretty,  and  spoiled  by  the 
attention  of  younger  and  poorer  men,  or  the  woman 
was  too  old,  too  plain,  too  settled,  or  too  wise  in 

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Paul     Run  del 

the  ways  of  the  world.  So  Hoag  had  all  but  relin- 
quished the  thought,  and  if  he  had  any  heart  he  gave 
it  to  Jack,  for  whom  he  still  had  a  remarkable  paternal 
passion,  as  for  his  son  Henry  he  still  had  little  love 
or  sympathy.  For  the  last  three  or  four  years  he 
had  regarded  Henry  as  an  idle  fellow  who  would 
never  succeed  in  anything. 

The  "klan"  of  which  Hoag  was  still  the  leader 
continued  to  hold  its  secret  meetings,  framed  crude 
laws  under  his  dictation,  and  inflicted  grim  and 
terrible  punishment.  And  these  men  honestly  be- 
lieved their  method  to  be  more  efficacious  than  the 
too  tardy  legal  courts  of  the  land. 

Hoag  had  been  to  one  of  these  meetings  in  a  re- 
mote retreat  in  the  mountains  one  moonlit  night, 
and  about  twelve  o'clock  was  returning.  He  was 
just  entering  the  gate  of  his  stable-yard  when  his 
attention  was  attracted  to  the  approach  along  the 
road  of  a  man  walking  toward  Grayson,  a  traveler's 
bag  in  his  hand.  It  was  an  unusual  thing  at  that 
hour,  and,  turning  his  horse  loose  in  the  yard,  Hoag 
went  back  to  the  gate  and  leaned  on  it,  curiously 
and  even  officiously  eying  the  approaching  pedes- 
trian. As  the  man  drew  nearer,  lightly  swinging 
his  bag,  Hoag  remarked  the  easy  spring  in  his 
stride,  and  noted  that  he  was  singing  softly  and 
contentedly.  He  was  sure  the  man  was  a  stranger, 
for  he  saw  nothing  famiHar  in  the  figure  as  to 
dress,  shape,  or  movement. 

"Must  be  a  peddler  in  some  line  or  other,"  he 
said  to  himself;  "but  a  funny  time  o'  night  to  be 
out  on  a  lonely  road  like  this." 

It  would  have  been  unlike  Hoag  to  have  let  the 
pedestrian  pass  without  some  sort  of  greeting,  and, 

158 


Paul     Rundel 

closing  the  gate,  he  stepped  toward  the  center  of 
the  road  and  stood  waiting. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  when  the  man  was  quite 
close  to  him. 

"Good  evening."  The  stranger  looked  up  sud- 
denly, checking  his  song,  and  stared  at  Hoag  stead- 
ily in  apparent  surprise.  Then  he  stopped  and  low- 
ered his  bag  to  the  ground.  "I  wonder,"  he  said, 
"if  this  is— can  this  possibly  be  Mr.  Jim  Hoag?" 

"That's  who  it  is,"  was  the  calm  reply;  "but  I 
don't  know  as  I've  ever  laid  eyes  on  you  before." 

"Oh  yes,  you  have."  The  stranger  laughed  al- 
most immoderately.  "You  look  closely,  Mr.  Hoag, 
and  you'll  recognize  a  chap  you  haven't  seen  in  many 
a  long,  long  year." 

Hoag  took  the  tall,  well-built  young  man  in  from 
head  to  foot.  He  was  well  and  stylishly  dressed, 
wore  a  short,  silky  beard,  and  had  brown  eyes  and 
brown  hair.     Hoag  dubiously  shook  his  head. 

"You've  got  the  best  o'  me,"  he  said,  slowdy. 
"I'm  good  at  recollectin'  faces,  as  a  rule,  too;  but 
my  sight  ain't  what  it  used  to  be,  an'  then  bein' 
night-time — " 

"It  was  after  dark  the  last  time  you  saw^  me,  Mr. 
Hoag."  The  stranger  was  extending  his  hand  and 
smiHng.  "Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  Ralph 
Rundel 's  son  Paul?" 

"Paul  Rundel — good  Lord!"  Hoag  took  the  ex- 
tended hand  clumsily,  his  eyes  dilating.  "It  can't 
be — why,  why,  I  thought  you  was  dead  an'  done  for 
long  ago.  I've  thought  many  a  time  that  I'd  try 
to  locate  you.  You  see,  after  advisin'  you — after 
tellin'  you,  as  I  did  that  night,  that  I  thought  you 
ought  to  run  away,  why,  I  sort  o'  felt — " 

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Paul      Rundel 

Hoag  seemed  unable  to  voice  his  train  of  thought 
and  slowed  up  to  an  awkward  pause. 

"Yes,  I  know — I  understand,"  Paul  Rundel  said, 
his  face  falling  into  seriousness,  his  voice  full  and 
earnest.  "I  know  I'm  late  about  it;  but  it  is  better 
to  be  late  than  never  when  you  intend  to  do  the 
right  thing.  I  committed  a  crime,  Mr.  Hoag,  and 
the  kind  of  a  crime  that  can't  be  brushed  out  of  a 
man's  conscience  by  any  sort  of  process.  I've  fought 
the  hardest  battle  that  any  man  of  my  age  ever 
waged.  For  years  I  tried  to  follow  your  advice, 
and  live  my  life  in  my  own  way,  but  I  failed  utterly. 
I  started  out  fair,  but  it  finally  got  me  down.  I 
saw  I  had  to  do  the  right  thing,  and  I  am  here  for 
that  purpose." 

"You  don't  mean — you  can't  mean,"  Hoag  stam- 
mered, "that  you  think — that  you  actually  believe — " 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say."  The  young, 
bearded  face  was  all  seriousness.  "I  stood  it,  I  tell 
you,  as  long  as  I  could  in  my  own  way,  and  finally 
made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  let  God  Almighty  take 
me  in  hand.  It  was  like  sweating  blood,  but  I 
got  to  it.  In  my  mind,  sleeping  and  waking,  I've 
stood  on  the  scaffold  a  thousand  times,  anyway, 
and  now,  somehow,  I  don't  dread  it  a  bit — not  a 
bit.  It  would  take  a  long  time  to  explain  it,  Mr. 
Hoag,  but  I  mean  what  I  say.  There  is  only  one 
thing  I  dread,  and  that  is  a  long  trial.  I'm  going 
to  plead  guilty  and  let  them  finish  me  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  want  to  meet  the  man  I  killed  face  to 
face  in  the  Great  Beyond  and  beg  his  pardon  in 
the  presence  of  God.  Then  I  will  have  done  as 
much  of  my  duty  as  is  possible  at  such  a  late  day." 

"Oh,  I  see!"     Hoag  fancied  he  understood.     One 
1 60 


Paul     Rundel 

of  his  old  shrewd  looks  stole  into  his  visage.  If 
Paul  Rundel  thought  he  was  as  easily  taken  in  as 
that,  he  had  mistaken  his  man,  that  was  certain. 
Hoag  put  his  big  hand  to  his  mouth  and  crushed 
out  an  expanding  smile,  the  edge  of  which  showed 
itself"  in  his  twinkling  eyes.  "Oh,  I  see,"  he  said, 
with  the  sort  of  seduction  he  used  in  his  financial 
dealings;  "you  hain't  heard  nothin'  from  here  since 
you  went  off — nothin'  at  all?" 

"Not  a  word,  Mr.  Hoag,  since  I  left  you  down 
there  seven  years  ago,"  was  the  reply.  "I  must 
have  walked  thirty  miles  that  night  through  the 
worst  up-and-down  country  in  these  mountains  be- 
fore day  broke.  I  struck  a  band  of  horse-trading 
gipsies  at  sun-up  in  the  edge  of  North  Carolina,  and 
they  gave  me  breakfast.  They  were  moving  toward 
the  railroad  faster  than  I  could  walk.  I  was  com- 
pletely fagged  out,  and  they  took  pity  on  me  and 
let  me  lie  down  on  some  straw  and  quilts  in  one  of 
their  vans.  I  slept  soundly  nearly  all  day.  I 
wasn't  afraid  of  being  caught;  in  fact,  I  didn't  care 
much  one  way  or  the  other.  I  was  sick  at  heart, 
blue  and  morbid.  I  suppose  conscience  was  even 
then  getting  in  its  work." 

"I  see."  Hoag  was  studying  the  3^oung  man's 
face,  voice,  and  manner  in  growing  perplexity. 
There  was  something  so  penetratingly  sincere  about 
the  fellow.  Hoag  had  heard  of  men  being  haunted 
by  conscience  till  they  would,  of  their  own  volition, 
give  themselves  up  for  punishment,  but  he  had 
never  regarded  such  things  as  possible,  and  he  re- 
fused to  be  misled  now.  "Then  you  took  a  train?" 
he  said,  like  a  close  cross-questioner.  "You  took 
the  train?" 

i6i 


Paul     Rundel 

"Yes,  I  left  the  gipsies  at  Randal's  Station,  on 
the  B:  A.  &  L.,  and  slipped  into  an  unlocked  box- 
car bound  for  the  West.  It  was  an  awful  trip ;  but 
after  many  ups  and  downs  I  reached  Portland 
in  about  as  sad  a  plight  as  a  boy  of  my  age  could 
well  be  in.  I  found  work  as  a  printer's  devil 
on  a  newspaper.  From  that  I  began  to  set  type. 
I  studied  hard  at  night,  and  finally  got  to  be  an 
editorial  writer.  You  see,  I  kept  myself  out  of 
view  as  much  as  possible — stayed  at  my  boarding- 
house  from  dark  till  morning,  and,  having  access  to 
a  fine  Hbrary,  I  read  to — to  kill  time  and  keep  my 
mind  off  my  crime." 

' '  Your  crimef     Oh,  you  mean  that  you  thought — ' ' 

"I  couldn't  possibly  get  away  from  it,  Mr.  Hoag." 
Paul's  voice  quivered,  and  he  drew  his  slender  hand 
across  his  eyes.  "Night  or  day,  dark  or  light, 
Jeff  Warren  was  always  before  me.  I've  seen  him 
reel,  stagger,  and  fall,  and  heard  him  groan  milHons 
and  milHons  of  times.  It  would  take  all  night  to 
tell  you  about  those  awful  years  of  sin  and  remorse — 
that  soul-racking  struggle  to  defy  God,  which  simply 
had  to  end,  and  did  end,  only  a  few  days  ago.  When 
I  left  here  I  beHeved  as  you  did  about  spiritual 
things,  Mr.  Hoag,  and  I  thought  I  could  live  my 
life  out  as  I  wished,  but  I  know  better  now.  My 
experience  during  those  seven  years  would  convince 
any  infidel  on  earth  that  God  is  in  every  atom  of 
matter  in  the  universe.  The  human  being  does  not 
live  who  will  not,  sooner  or  later,  bow  down  under 
this  truth — if  not  here,  he  will  in  the  Great  Beyond." 

"Bosh!"  Hoag  growled,  his  heavy  brows  meeting 
in  a  fierce  frown  of  displeasure. 

"Oh,  I  see  you  still  think  as  you  used  to  think," 

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Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

Paul  went  on,  regretfully;  "but  you'll  come  to  it 
some  day — you'll  come  to  it  in  God's  own  good 
time.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  know  that  I  am 
giving  you  a  proof  of  my  reformation,  anyway.  You 
know,  if  you  will  stop  to  think  about  it,  Mr.  Hoag, 
that  I  am  giving  vital  proof  that  I,  at  least,  am  con- 
vinced or  I  would  not  be  wilHng  to  give  my  life 
up  like  this.  It  isn't  hard  to  die  when  you  know 
you  are  dying  to  fulfil  a  wonderful  divine  law;  in 
fact,  to  mend  a  law  which  you  yourself  have 
broken!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  trying  to  git  at,  an' 
I  don't  care,"  Hoag  blustered.  "I  don't  know  what 
your  present  object  is,  what  sort  of  an  ax  you  got 
to  grind;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,  Paul,  an' 
you  kin  smoke  it  in  your  pipe  if  you  want  to.  Some- 
body round  here  has  kept  you  posted.  You  know 
how  the  land  lays,  an'  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
turn  preacher,  I  reckon — if  you  ain't  already  one — 
an'  you  think  it  will  be  a  fine  card  to  make  these 
damn  fools  here  in  the  backwoods  think  you  really 
was  ready  to  go  to  the  scaffold,  an'  the  like  o'  that. 
But  the  truth  will  leak  out.  Sooner  or  later  folks — 
even  the  silliest  of  'em — will  git  onto  your  game. 
You  can't  look  me  square  in  the  eye,  young  man, 
an'  tell  me  that  you  don't  know  Jeff  Warren  didn't 
die,  an'  that  when  he  married  your  mammy  an' 
moved  away  the  case  ag'in'  you  was  dismissed. 
Huh,  I  ain't  as  green  as  a  gourd!" 

Paul  started,  stared  incredulously  at  the  speaker, 
his  mouth  falling  open  till  his  white  teeth  gleamed 
in  the  moonlight.  He  leaned  forward,  his  breath 
coming  and  going  audibly,  his  broad  chest  swelling. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Hoag's  shoulder  and  bore  down 

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Paul     Rundel 

on  it  heavily.  Hoag  felt  it  quivering  as  if  it  were 
charged  with  an  electric  current.  Paul  was  trying 
to  speak,  trying  to  be  calm.  He  swallowed;  his 
lips  moved  automatically;  he  put  his  disengaged 
hand  on  Hoag's  other  shoulder  and  forced  him  to 
look  at  him.  He  shook  him.  In  his  face  was  the 
light  of  a  great  nascent  joy. 

"Don't  say  he's  alive  unless — my  God,  unless 
it's  true!"  he  cried,  shaking  Hoag  again.  "That 
would  be  the  act  of  a  fiend  in  human  shape.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  Speak,  speak,  speak,  man! 
Don't  you  understand?  Speak!  Is  it  true — is  it 
possible  that — "  Paul's  voice  broke  in  a  great 
welling  sob  of  excitement  and  his  quivering  head 
began  to  sink. 

Hoag  was  quite  taken  aback.  This  was  genuine; 
of  that  he  was  convinced.  "Thar's  no  use  gittin' 
so  worked  up,"  he  said.  "Jeff  is  sound  an'  well. 
I'm  sorry  I  talked  like  I  did,  for  I  see  you  must  'a' 
been  in  the  dark,  an' — " 

He  went  no  further.  Paul  had  removed  his 
hands.  A  Hght  was  on  his  face  that  seemed  super- 
human. He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky.  He  swerved 
toward  the  side  of  the  road  like  a  man  entranced 
till  he  reached  the  fence,  and  there  he  rested  his 
head  on  his  arms  and  stood  bowed,  still,  and  silent. 

"Huh,  this  is  a  purty  pickle!"  Hoag  said  to  him- 
self. He  stood  nonplussed  for  several  minutes,  and 
then  advanced  to  Paul,  treading  the  ground  noise- 
lessly till  he  was  close  to  him.  And  then  he  heard 
the  young  man  muttering  an  impassioned  prayer. 

"I  thank  thee,  O  God,  I  thank  thee!  O, 
blessed  Father!  O,  merciful  Creator,  this  —  this 
is  thy  reward!" 

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Paul     Rundel 

Hoag  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  Paul 
turned  his  eyes  upon  him,  which  were  full  of  exultant 
tears.  "Say,"  Hoag  proposed,  kindly  enough,  "thar 
ain't  no  need  o'  you  goin'  on  to  Grayson  to-night. 
The  hotel  ain't  runnin'  this  summer,  nohow.  Pete 
Kerr  an'  his  wife  closed  it  for  a  month  to  go  off  on 
a  trip.  I've  got  a  big,  cool  room  in  my  house  that 
ain't  occupied.  Stay  with  me  as  long  as  you  like. 
We  are  sort  o'  old  friends,  an'  you  are  entirely  wel- 
come. I'd  love  the  best  in  the  world  to  have 
you." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you."  Paul  was  calmer  now, 
though  his  countenance  was  still  aglow  with  its 
supernal  light.  "I  really  am  very  tired.  I've 
walked  ten  miles — all  the  way  from  Darby  Cross- 
roads. The  hack  broke  down  there  a  little  after 
dark,  and  as  I  wanted  to  give  myself  up  before 
morning — before  meeting  anybody — I  came  on  afoot. 
The  driver  was  a  new  man,  and  so  he  had  no  idea 
of  who  I  was  or  what  my  intentions  were.  Oh,  Mr. 
Hoag,  you  can't  imagine  how  I  feel.  You  have 
given  me  such  a  great  joy.  I  know  I  am  acting  like 
a  crazy  man,  but  I  can't  help  it.  It  is  so  new,  so 
fresh — so  glorious!" 

"The  whole  thing  seems  crazy  to  me,"  said  Hoag, 
with  a  return  of  his  old  bluntness;  "but.  that's 
neither  here  nor  thar.  You  seem  to  be  in  earnest. 
Pick  up  yore  valise  an*  let's  go  in  the  house." 

"Are  you  sure  you  have  room  for  me?"  Paul 
asked,  as  he  went  for  his  bag. 

"Plenty,  plenty.  My  sister,  Mrs.  Mayfield,  an' 
Ethel,  from  Atlanta — you  remember  them — they 
are  spending  the  summer  here,  as  they  always  do 
now.    They  went  to  Atlanta  yesterday — some  o'  their 

i6s 


Paul     Rundel 

kin  is  sick — Jennie  Buford.  They  will  be  back  to- 
morrow by  dinner-time.  But  when  they  come  you 
needn't  stir.  We've  got  plenty  o'  room.  You  are 
welcome  to  stay  as  long  as  you  like.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  the  West." 


CHAPTER   II 

HOAG  led  the  way  through  the  gate  and  up  the 
walk  toward  the  house. 

"Do  you  think  you'll  be  likely  to  settle  down 
here  again?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  shall  now — I  shall  now,"  Paul  returned, 
eagerly.  "I've  been  so  homesick  for  these  old 
mountains  and  valleys  that  I  shall  never  want  to 
leave  them.  It  is  that  way  with  most  men;  they 
never  find  any  spot  so  attractive  as  the  place  where 
they  were  brought  up." 

"The  reason  I  asked,"  Hoag  said,  with  a  touch 
of  pride,  "was  this.  I've  increased  my  interests 
here  a  powerful  sight  since  you  went  away,  I've 
added  on  two  more  good-sized  farms.  My  tannery 
is  double  what  it  was,  an'  my  flour-mill's  a  new  one 
with  the  patent-roller  process.  Then  I  run  a  brick- 
yard t'other  side  o'  town,  and  a  shingle-mill  and  a 
little  spoke  an'  hub  factory.  I  tell  you  this  so  you'll 
understand  the  situation.  I'm  gittin'  too  stiff  an' 
heavy  to  ride  about  much,  an'  I've  got  to  have  a 
general  superintendent.  The  fellow  that  was  with 
me  for  the  last  four  years  left  me  high  an'  dry  a  week 
ago,  after  a  row  me  an'  him  had  over  a  trifle,  when 
you  come  to  think  about  it.  It  just  struck  me  that 
you  might  want  to  think  it  over  an'  see  how  you'd 
like  the  job." 

"I  should  like  it,  I  am  sure,"  Paul  said,  gratefully. 
167 


Paul     Rundel 

"I  am  going  to  stay  here,  and  I'll  have  to  keep 
busy." 

"Well,  we'll  talk  it  over  to-morrow,"  Hoag  said, 
in  quite  a  tone  of  satisfaction.  "I  reckon  we'll 
agree  on  the  price.  If  you  are  as  hard  a  worker  as 
you  used  to  be  I'll  be  more  'an  pleased." 

They  were  now  at  the  veranda  steps.  The  front 
door  was  locked ;  Hoag  opened  it  with  a  key  which 
was  fastened  to  his  suspenders  by  a  steel  chain, 
and  the  two  went  into  the  unlighted  hall.  The 
owner  of  the  house  fumbled  about  in  the  dark  until 
he  found  a  couple  of  candles  on  a  table,  and,  scratch- 
ing a  match  on  his  thigh,  he  lighted  them. 

"Now  we  are  all  hunky-dory,"  he  chuckled. 
"I'm  goin*  to  give  you  a  good  room,  an'  if  I  don't 
live  on  the  fat  of  the  land  as  to  grub  nobody  else 
does.  If  we  come  to  terms,  I'll  want  you  to  stay 
right  here,  whar  I  can  consult  you  at  a  moment's 
notice." 

"That  would  be  nice  indeed,"  Paul  returned,  as 
he  followed  his  host  up  the  uncarpeted  stairs  to  a 
hall,  which  was  the  counterpart  of  the  one  below. 

At  the  front  end  of  the  hall  Hoag  pushed  a  door 
open  and  entering  a  large  bedroom,  put  one  of 
the  candles  on  the  mantelpiece.  "Here  you  are," 
he  said,  pleasantly,  waving  his  heavy  hand  over  the 
furniture,  which  consisted  of  a  table,  a  couple  of 
chairs,  a  bureau,  wardrobe,  and  a  fully  equipped 
wash-stand.  ' '  You  '11  have  to  admit ' ' — Hoag  smiled 
at  this — ^"that  it  is  better  than  the  place  you  was 
headed  for.  The  last  time  I  peeped  in  that  jail 
thar  wasn't  any  beds  that  I  could  see — niggers  an' 
tramps  was  lyin'  on  iron  bars  with  nothin'  under 
'em  but  scraps  o'  blankets." 

1 68 


Paul      R  11  n  d  c  1 

Just  then  there  was  the  sound  of  a  creaking  bed 
in  the  room  adjoining. 

Hoag  put  his  own  candle  down  on  the  table. 

"It's  Henry,"  he  explained.  "He's  been  poutin' 
all  day.  Me'n  him  had  some  hot  words  at  supper. 
He  wants  me  to  furnish  some  money  for  him  to  go 
in  business  on.  Him  an'  another  man  want  to  start 
a  produce  store  in  Grayson,  but  I  won't  put  hard 
cash  in  inexperienced  hands.  It  would  be  the  same 
as  stickin'  it  in  a  buniin'  brush-heap.  He's  quit 
drinkin'  an'  gamblin',  but  he  won't  work." 

"I've  seen  young  men  like  him,"  Paul  said. 
"Henry  wasn't  brought  up  to  work,  and  he  may  be 
helpless.     He  ought  to  be  encouraged." 

"Well,  I'll  not  encourage  him  by  puttin'  a  lot  o' 
cash  in  his  clutches,"  Hoag  sniffed.  "If  he'd  set 
in  an'  work  like  you  used  to  do,  for  instance,  thar's 
no  tellin'  what  I  would  do  for  him  in  the  long  run. 
Well,  I'm  keepin'  you  up.  I'll  sec  you  in  the 
mornin'.     Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  Paul  said. 

With  his  lighted  candle  in  his  hand  Hoag  went 
down-stairs  and  turned  into  his  own  room,  adjoin- 
ing the  one  in  which  Jack  and  his  grandmother 
slept.  Putting  his  candle  on  a  tabic,  he  began  to  un- 
dress. He  had  finished  and  was  about  to  lie  down 
when  he  heard  a  light  footfall  in  the  next  room.  A 
connecting  door  was  pushed  open  and  a  tall,  slender 
boy  in  a  white  nightgown  stood  in  the  moonlight 
which  streamed  through  a  vine-hung  window  and 
fell  on  the  floor. 

"Is  that  you,  Daddy?" 

"Yes,  son."  There  was  an  odd  note  of  affection  in 
Hoag's  welcoming  tone.     "Do  you  want  anything?" 

12  169 


Paul      Rundel 

The  boy  crept  forward  slowly.  "I  got  scared. 
I  woke  and  heard  you  talkin'  up-stairs  like  you  was 
still  quarreling  with  Henry." 

"You  must  have  been  dreaming."  The  father 
held  out  his  arms  and  drew  the  boy  into  a  gentle 
embrace.  "Do  you  want  to  sleep  with  your  old 
daddy?" 

"Oh  yes!"  Jack  crawled  from  his  father's  arms 
to  the  back  part  of  the  bed  and  stretched  out  his 
slender  white  legs  against  the  plastered  wall.  "May 
I  sleep  here  till  morning,  and  get  up  when  you 
do?" 

"Yes,  if  you  want  to.  Do  you  railly  love  to  sleep 
in  my  bed?" 

Hoag  was  now  lying  down,  and  Jack  put  his  arm 
under  his  big  neck  and  hugged  him.  "Yes,  I  do; 
I  don't  like  my  little  bed;  it's  too  short." 

"Thar,  kiss  daddy  on  the  cheek  and  go  to  sleep," 
Hoag  said,  under  the  thrill  of  delight  which  the 
boy's  caresses  invariably  evoked.  "It's  late — awful 
late  fer  a  chap  like  you  to  be  awake." 

Jack  drew  his  arm  away,  rolled  back  against  the 
cool  wall,  and  sighed. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  presently,  just  as  Hoag  was 
composing  himself  for  sleep,  "I  don't  want  Grandma 
to  tag  after  me  so  much.  She  watches  me  like  a 
hawk,  an'  is  always  saying  if  I  don't  look  out  I'll 
grow  up  and  be  good  for  nothing  like  Henry.  Daddy, 
what  makes  Henry  that  way?" 

"I  don't  know;  he's  just  naturally  lazy.  Now 
go  to  sleep." 

"Some  folks  like  Henry  very,  very  much,"  the 
boy  pursued,  getting  further  and  further  from  sleep. 
"Grandma  says  he  really  is  trying  to  be  good,  but 

170 


Paul     Rundel 

don't  know  how.  Was  you  like  him  when  you  was 
young,   Daddy?" 

"No — I  don't  know;  why,  no,  I  reckon  not. 
Why  do  you  ask  such  silly  questions?" 

"Grandma  told  Aunt  Dilly  one  day  that  you  al- 
ways did  drink,  but  that  you  didn't  often  show  it. 
She  said  Henry  had  quit,  and  that  was  wonderful 
for  any  one  who  had  it  in  his  blood  like  Henry  has. 
Is  it  in  my  blood,  too,  Daddy?" 

"No."  Hoag's  patience  was  exhausted.  "Now 
go  to  sleep.  I've  got  to  rest,  I'm  tired,  and  must 
work  to-morrow." 

"Are  you  a  soldier,  Daddy?"  Jack  pursued  his 
habit  of  ignoring  all  commands  from  that  particular 
source. 

"No,  I'm  not.  Now  go  to  sleep;  if  you  don't, 
I'll  send  you  back  to  your  own  bed." 

"Then  why  does  Mr.  Trawley  call  you  'Captain' ? " 

"Who  said — who  told  you  he  called  me  that?" 
Hoag  turned  his  massive  head  on  his  pillow  and 
looked  at  the  beautiful  profile  of  his  son,  as  it  was 
outlined  against  the  wall. 

"Oh,  I  heard  him  the  other  day,  when  he  rode 
up  after  you  to  go  somewhere.  I  was  in  the  loft 
at  the  barn  fixing  my  pigeon-box  and  heard  him 
talking  to  you  down  at  the  fence.  Just  as  he 
started  off  he  said,  'Captain,  your  men  will  wait 
for  you  at  the  usual  place.  They  won't  stir  with- 
out your  commands.'" 

Hoag's  head  moved  again;  his  eyes  swept  on  to 
the  ceiling;  there  was  a  pause;  his  wit  seemed 
sluggish. 

"Are  you  really  a  captain.  Daddy?"  Jack  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  and  leaned  over  his  father's  face, 

171 


Paul      Rundel 

"No;  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,"  Hoag  said, 
sternly.  "Some  people  call  me  that  just  out  of — 
out  of  respect,  just  as  a  sort  o'  nickname.  The 
war  is  over;    thar  ain't  no  real  captains  now." 

"I  think  I  know  why  they  call  you  that." 
Jack's  delicate  face  was  warm  with  pride,  and  his 
young  voice  was  full  and  round.  "It  is  because  you 
are  the  bravest  an'  richest  and  best  one.  That's 
why  Mr.  Trawley  said  they  wouldn't  stir  till  you 
told  them.  I  asked  Grandma  about  it,  and  she  looked 
so  funny  and  acted  so  queer !  She  wouldn't  say  any- 
thing to  me,  but  she  went  straight  to  Aunt  Dilly,  and 
they  talked  a  long  time,  and  Grandma  looked  like 
she  was  bothered.  That  was  the  night  the  White 
Caps  rode  along  the  road  after  that  runaway  negro. 
I  saw  Grandma  watching  from  the  window.  She 
thought  I  was  asleep,  but  I  got  up  and  looked  out 
of  the  other  window  and  she  didn't  know  it.  Oh, 
they  looked  awful  in  their  long,  white  things.  Aunt 
Dilly  was  down  in  the  yard,  and  she  told  Grandma 
that  God  was  going  to  have  revenge,  because  the 
Bible  said  so.  She  said  Cato  had  left  his  cabin  and 
was  hiding  in  the  woods  for  fear  they  might  get  him. 
She  said  Cato  was  a  good  nigger,  and  that  it  was  a 
sin  to  scare  him  and  all  the  rest  like  that.  Daddy, 
what  are  the  White  Caps?  Where  do  they  come 
from?" 

"Oh,  from  roundabout  in  the  mountains!"  Hoag 
returned,  uneasily.  "Now  go  to  sleep.  You  are 
nervous;  you  are  shaking  all  over;  those  men  won't 
hurt  you." 

"But  they  do  get  white  folks  sometimes,  and  take 
them  out  and  whip  them,"  Jack  said,  tremulously. 
"Aunt  Dilly  said  one  day  to  Cato  that  they  begun 

172 


Paul      R  II  n  d  e  1 

on  the  blacks,  but  they  had  sunk  so  low  that  they 
were  after  their  own  race  now.  What  would  we 
do  if  they  was  to  come  here  after — "  The  little 
voice  trailed  away  on  the  still  air,  and  glancing  at 
the  boy's  face  Hoag  saw  that  the  pretty,  sensitive 
lips  were  quivering. 

"After  who?"  he  asked,  curious  in  spite  of  his 
caution. 

"After  Henry,"  Jack  gulped.  "They  might, 
you  know,  to  whip  him  for  not  working.  They  did 
whip  a  poor  white  man  last  summer  because  he  let 
his  wife  and  children  go  hungry.  Daddy,  if  they 
was — really  was  to  ride  up  here  and  call  Henry  out, 
would  you  shoot  them?  What  would  be  the  use, 
when  there  are  so  many  and  every  one  has  a  gun?" 

"They — they  are  not  coming  after  Henry." 
Hoag  was  at  the  end  of  his  resources.  "Git  all  that 
rubbish  out  o'  your  head  an'  go  to  sleep!" 

"How  do  you  know  they  won't  come.  Daddy? 
Oh,  Daddy,  Henry  really  is  my  only  brother  an'  I 
love  'im.  You  don't  know  how  good  he  is  to  me 
sometimes.  He  mends  my  things,  and  makes  toys 
for  me  with  his  knife,  and  tells  me  stories  about 
sailors  and  soldiers  and  Indians." 

Hoag  turned  on  his  side  and  laid  a  caressing  hand 
on  the  boy's  brow.  "Now,  now,"  he  said,  soothing- 
ly, "let's  both  go  to  sleep." 

"All  right.  Daddy."  Jack  leaned  over  his  father's 
face  and  kissed  him.     "Good  night." 

"Good  night."  Hoag  rolled  over  to  the  front 
side  of  the  bed,  straightened  himself  out  and  closed 
his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  finding  himself  alone  in  his  room,  Paul  be- 
gan to  realize  the  full  import  of  the  startling 
information  Hoag  had  imparted  to  him.  He  stood 
before  an  open  window,  and  with  the  sense  of  being 
afloat  on  a  sea  of  actual  ecstasy  he  gazed  into  the 
mystic  moonlight.  Northward  lay  the  village,  and 
to  the  left  towered  the  mountains  for  which  he  had 
hungered  all  the  years  of  his  absence.  How  restful, 
God-blessed  seemed  the  familiar  meadows  and  fields 
in  their  drowsy  verdure !  He  took  deep  draughts  of 
the  mellow  air,  his  broad  chest  expanding,  his  arms 
extended  wide,  as  if  to  clasp  the  whole  in  a  worship- 
ing embrace. 

"Thank  God,"  he  cried,  fervently,  "I  am  not  a 
murderer!  My  prayers  are  answered.  The  Lord 
is  showing  me  the  way — and  such  a  way — such  a 
glorious,  blessed  way!" 

And  to-morrow — his  thoughts  raced  madly  on- 
ward— to-morrow  the  dawn  would  break.  The 
land  he  loved,  the  hills  and  vales  he  adored,  would 
be  flooded  with  the  blaze  of  his  first  day  of  actual 
life.  Ethel  would  be  there— httle  Ethel,  who,  of 
course,  was  now  a  young  woman — there,  actually 
there,  in  that  very  house!  Would  she  remember 
him — the  ragged  boy  whom  she  had  so  unselfishly 
befriended?  What  must  she  think  of  him— if  she 
thought  of  him  at  all— for  acting  as  he  had  ?  Oh 
yes,  that  was  it — if  she  thought  of  him  at  all !     He 

174 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

had  treasured  her  every  word.  Her  face  and  voice, 
in  all  their  virginal  sympathy,  had  been  constantly 
with  him  during  the  terrible  years  through  which 
he  had  struggled. 

The  dawn  was  breaking.  Paul  lay  sleeping;  his 
bearded  face  held  a  frown  of  pain;  his  lips  were 
drawn  downward  and  twisted  awry.  He  was  dream- 
ing. He  saw  himself  seated  at  his  desk  in  the 
editorial  room  of  the  paper  on  which  he  had  worked 
in  the  West.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  write  an 
article,  but  the  sheets  of  paper  before  him  kept 
fluttering  to  the  floor  and  disappearing  from  sight. 
There  was  a  rap  on  the  door,  the  latch  was  turned, 
and  an  officer  in  uniform  entered  and  stood  beside 
him. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  you'll  have  to  come 
with  me.  You  are  wanted  back  in  Georgia.  We've 
been  looking  for  you  for  years,  but  we've  landed 
you  at  last." 

Paul  seemed  to  see  and  hear  the  jingle  of  a  pair 
of  steel  handcuffs.  A  dead  weight  bore  down  on 
his  brain  as  the  metal  clasped  his  wrists.  Dense 
darkness  enveloped  him,  and  he  felt  himself  being 
jerked  along  at  a  mad  pace. 

"I  intended  to  give  myself  up,"  he  heard  himself 
explaining  to  his  captor.  "I'm  guilty.  I  did  it. 
Day  after  day  I've  told  myself  that  I  would  go  back 
and  own  it,  but  I  put  it  off." 

"That's  the  old  tale."  The  officer  seemed  to  laugh 
out  of  the  darkness.  "Your  sort  are  always  intend- 
ing to  do  right,  but  never  get  to  it.  They  are  going 
to  hang  you  back  there  in  the  mountains,  young 
man,  hang  you  till  you  are  dead,  dead,  dead !    Ethel 

175 


Paul     Run  del 

Mayfield's  there — she  is  the  same  beautiful  girl — 
but  she  will  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge  she  ever 
knew  you.  She  used  to  pray  for  you — silly  young 
thing! — and  this  is  the  answer.  You'll  die  like  a 
dog,  young  man,  with  a  rope  around  your  neck." 

Paul  waked  slowly;  his  face  was  wet  with  cold 
perspiration.  At  first  he  fancied  he  was  in  a  prison- 
cell  lying  on  a  narrow  cot.  Such  queer  sounds  were 
beating  into  his  consciousness — the  crowing  of 
cocks,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  gladsome  twittering 
of  birds!  Then  he  seemed  to  be  a  boy  again,  lying 
in  his  bed  in  the  farm-house.  His  father  was  call- 
ing him  to  get  up.  The  pigs  were  in  the  potato- 
field.  But  how  could  Ralph  Rundel  call  to  him, 
for  surely  he  was  dead?  Yes,  he  was  dead,  and  Jeff 
Warren — Jeff  Warren —  Why,  Hoag  had  said  that 
he  had— recovered.     Recovered! 

Paul  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him  in  a 
bewildered  way.  The  room,  in  the  gray  light  which 
streamed  in  at  the  windows,  was  unfamiliar.  He 
sat  up  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  tried  to  collect 
his  thoughts;  then  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  sprang 
to  the  window. 

"Thank  God,  thank  God!"  he  cried,  as  he  stared 
out  at  the  widening  landscape  and  the  truth  grad- 
ually fastened  itself  upon  him.  "Thank  God,  I'm 
free — free — ^free !" 

He  told  himself  that  he  could  not  possibly  go  to 
sleep  again,  and  huriedly  and  excitedly  he  began  to 
put  on  his  clothes. 

When  he  had  finished  dressing  he  crept  out  into 
the  silent  hall  and  softly  tiptoed  down  the  stairs. 
The  front  door  was  ajar,  and,  still  aglow  with  his 
vast  new  joy,  he  passed  out  into  the  yard.     The 

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Paul     Rundel 

dewy  lawn  had  a  ]:)cauty  he  had  never  sensed  be- 
fore. The  great  trees,  solemn  and  stately,  lifted 
their  fronded  tops  into  the  lowering  mist.  The  air 
held  the  fragrance  of  flowers.  Red  and  white  roses 
besprent  with  dew  bordered  the  walks,  bloomed  in 
big  beds,  and  honeysuckles  and  morning-glories 
climbed  the  lattice  of  the  veranda.  Down  the 
graveled  walk,  under  the  magnolias,  the  leaves  of 
wliich  touched  his  bare  head,  Paul  strode,  his  step 
elastic,  his  whole  being  ablaze  with  mystic  delight. 
Reaching  the  road,  he  took  the  nearest  path  up  the 
mountain.  He  waved  his  arms ;  he  ran;  he  jumped 
as  he  had  jumped  when  a  boy ;  he  whistled ;  he  sang ; 
he  wept;  he  prayed;  he  exulted.  Higher  and  higher 
he  mounted  in  the  rarefied  air,  his  feet  slipping  on 
the  red-brown  pine-needles  and  dry  heather  till  he 
reached  an  open  promontory  where  a  flat  ledge 
sharply  jutted  out  over  the  gray  void  below.  Like 
a  fearless,  winged  creature  he  stood  upon  the  edge  of 
it.  The  eastern  slvy  was  taking  on  a  tinge  of  laven- 
der. Slowly  this  warmed  into  an  ever-expanding 
sea  of  pink,  beneath  the  breathless  waves  of  which 
lay  the  palpitating  sun.  Paul  stretched  out  his 
arms  toward  the  light  and  stood  as  dumb  and  still 
as  the  gray  boulders  and  gnarled  trees  behind  him. 
He  was  athrob  with  a  glorious  sense  of  the  Infinite, 
which  seemed  to  enter  his  being  Hke  a  flood  at  its 
height. 

"Free!  Free!"  he  shouted,  as  the  tears  burst 
from  his  eyes  and  streamed  down  his  cheeks.  "For- 
given, forgiven !  I  was  blind  and  now  I  see !  I  stand 
on  the  fringe  of  the  eternal  and  see  with  the  eyes 
of  truth.  All  is  well  with  God  and  every  created 
thing,  vast   and    infinitesimal!      O    Lord,  I    thank 

177 


Paul      Rundel 

Thee;  with  my  whole  being,  which  is  spirit  of  Thy 
spirit  and  flesh  of  Thy  flesh,  I  thank  Thee!  Holy, 
holy,  holy,  is  the  Lord  God  Almighty!  He  is  in 
me,  and  I  am  in  Him!" 

Paul  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  the  hot 
tears  trickled  through  his  fingers.  His  body  shook 
with  sobs.  Presently  he  became  calmer,  uncovered 
his  face,  and  looked  again  toward  the  east.  The 
day,  like  a  blazing  torrent,  was  leaping  into  end- 
less space,  lapping  up  with  tongues  of  fire  islands 
and  continents  of  clouds.  Raising  his  hands  heaven- 
ward, Paul  cried  out,  in  a  clear,  firm  voice  that  re- 
bounded from  the  cliffs  behind  him: 

"O  God,  my  blessed  Creator,  Thou  hast  led  me 
through  the  agony  of  travail,  through  the  pits  and 
caverns  of  sin  and  remorse  to  the  foot  of  Thy  throne. 
Dimly  I  see  Thy  veiled  face.  I  hear  the  far-off 
hosts  of  eternal  wisdom  chanting  the  deathless  song 
of  Love.  Take  me — command  me,  body,  mind, 
and  soul!  Burden  me  again,  and  yet  again;  tor- 
ture me,  afflict  me;  grind  me  as  a  filthy  worm  be- 
neath the  heel  of  Thy  Law;  but  in  the  end  give  me 
this — this  wondrous  sense  of  Thee  and  transcendent 
knowledge  of  myself.  Here,  now  and  forever,  I  con- 
secrate myself  to  Thy  cause.  O  blessed  God,  who 
art  love  and  naught  but  love.  I  thank  Thee,  I 
thank  Thee!" 

The  sun,  now  a  great,  red  disk,  had  burst  into 
sight.  The  golden  light  lay  shimmering  on  hill  and 
vale.  Every  dewy  blade  of  grass,  stalk  of  grain,  and 
dripping  leaf  seemed  to  breathe  afresh.  From  the 
lower  boughs  of  the  trees  night-woven  cobwebs 
hung,  the  gauzy  snares  of  creatures  as  wise  as 
Napoleon  and  materially  as  cruel.      The  scattered 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

houses  of  Grayson  were  now  in  view.     Paul  feasted 

his  eyes  on  the  Square,  and  the  diverging  streets  which 
led  into  the  red-clay  mountain  roads.  The  hamlet 
was  almost  devoid  of  life.  He  saw,  or  thought  he 
saw,  his  old  friend,  Silas  Tye,  go  out  to  the  public 
pump  in  front  of  his  shop,  fill  a  pail  with  water,  and 
disappear.  In  the  wagon-yard  were  two  canvas- 
covered  wagons  and  a  camp-fire,  over  which  men, 
women,  and  children  were  cooking  breakfast.  Paul's 
glance  swept  down  the  rugged  slope  to  Hoag's  house. 
Cato  was  feeding  the  horses  and  cattle  in  the  stable- 
yard.  Aunt  Dilly,  in  a  red  linscy  frock,  was  chop- 
ping stove-wood  close  to  the  kitchen,  the  thwacks 
of  her  dull  ax  sharply  audible.  Paul  suddenly  had 
a  desire  to  speak  to  these  swarthy  toilers,  to  take 
them  by  the  hand  and  make  them  feel  his  boundless 
friendliness  to  them,  and  so,  with  a  parting  look  at 
the  view  below,  he  turned  and  began  to  retrace  his 
steps. 

Cato  was  near  the  kitchen  door  helping  Dilly 
take  in  the  wood  when  Paul  went  up  the  front  walk, 
turned  the  comer  of  the  house,  and  approached  him. 
The  negro  stared  in  astonishment,  then  laid  do\Mi 
his  burden  and  held  out  his  hands. 

"My  Gawd,  Mister  Paul,  is  dis  you?  Lawd, 
Lawd  'a'  mussy!" 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  the  young  man  answered;  "I've 
got  back  at  last." 

"It's  a  wonder  I  knowed  you  wid  dat  beard,  an' 
dem  fine  riggin's  on."  Cato  was  eying  Paul's 
modem  raiment  with  a  slow,  covetous  glance.  ' '  But 
it  was  dcm  eyes  o'  your'n  I  knowed  you  by.  No- 
body ain't  gwine  ter  forgit  dem  peepers.  Somehow 
dey  look  as  saft  as  'er  woman's.     What  yer  been 

1/9 


Paul     R  undel 

done  ter  yo'se'f — you  ain't  de  same.  My  Gawd, 
you  ain't  de  same  po'  boy  dat  tried  yo'  level  best  ter 
kill  dat  white  man  wid  er  gun." 

Paul  was  saved  the  embarrassment  of  a  reply  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  Aunt  Dilly,  who  was  liter- 
ally running  down  the  steps  from  the  kitchen  porch. 

"Don't  tell  me  dat  is  Marse  Paul  Rundel?"  she 
cried.  "I  ain't  gwine  beHeve  it.  De  gen'man's  er 
foolin'  you,  you  blockhead  idiot!" 

"That's  who  it  is,  Aunt  Dilly."  Paul  held  out 
his  hand  cordially  and  clasped  her  rasping,  toil- 
stiffened  fingers.  "I've  got  back,  never  to  leave 
again." 

"Lawd,  Lawd,  it  is — it  sho  is  dat  ve'y  boy!"  Dilly 
cried.  ' '  You  right,  Cato,  he  got  de  eyes  en  de  voice. 
I'd  know  'em  anywhar.  My,  my,  my,  but  you  sho 
is  changed  er  sight !  I  ain't  never  expect  ter  see  dat 
raggety  white  boy  turn  inter  er  fine  gen'man  lak 
dis.     Lawd,  what  gwine  ter  happen  next?" 

Paul  conversed  with  the  two  for  several  minutes, 
and  then  went  up  to  his  room  on  a  hint  from  Dilly 
that  breakfast  would  soon  be  served.  Paul  had  been 
in  his  room  only  a  short  while  when  he  heard  the 
door  of  Henry  Hoag's  room  open  and  Henry  ap- 
peared. 

"Hello,  Paul!"  he  said,  cordially  extending  his 
hand.  "I  wouldn't  have  known  you  from  a  side  of 
sole-leather  if  I  hadn't  heard  you  talking  to  Cato  and 
Dilly  down  there.  I  didn't  know  you  were  back.  I 
thought  you'd  cut  this  section  off  your  map.  I'm 
goin'  to  do  it  some  day,  if  I  can  get  up  enough 
money  to  start  on.  What  you  ever  came  back  here 
for  is  one  on  me.     It  certainly  is  the  jumpin'-off 

place." 

i8o 


Paul     Rundel 

"It  is  the  only  home  I  ever  knew,"  Paul  returned. 
"You  know  it  is  natural  for  a  man  to  want  to  see  old 
landmarks." 

"I  reckon  so,  I  reckon  so."  Henry's  roving  glance 
fell  on  Paul's  valise.  ' '  I  suppose  you've  seen  a  good 
deal  of  the  world.  I  certainly  envy  you.  I  am 
tired  of  this.  I  am  dying  of  the  dry-rot.  I  need 
something  to  do,  but  don't  know  how  to  find  it.  I 
tried  life  insurance,  but  every  man  I  approached 
treated  it  as  a  joke.  I  made  one  trip  as  a  drummer 
for  a  fancy-goods  firm  in  Baltimore.  I  didn't  sell 
enough  to  pay  my  railroad  fare.  The  house  tele- 
graphed me  to  ship  my  sample  trunks  back.  My 
father  had  advanced  me  a  hundred  to  start  on,  and 
when  I  came  home  he  w^anted  to  thrash  me.  I'll 
give  you  a  pointer,  Paul;  if  you  are  lookin'  for  a  job, 
you  can  land  one  with  him.  He's  crazy  to  hire  an 
overseer,  but  he  wouldn't  trust  it  to  me.  The  chap 
that  left  'im  wouldn't  stand  his  jaw  and  the  old 
man  can't  attend  to  the  work  himself.  Take  a  tip 
from  me.  If  you  accept  the  job,  have  a  distinct  un- 
derstandin'  that  he  sha'n't  cuss  you  black  an'  blue 
whenever  he  takes  a  notion.  He's  worse  at  that 
than  he  used  to  be,  an'  the  only  way  to  git  along 
with  him  is  to  knock  'im  down  and  set  on  him  right 
at  the  start.  He  hasn't  but  one  decent  trait,  an' 
that  is  his  love  for  little  Jack.  He'd  go  any  lengths 
for  that  kid.  Well,  so  would  I.  The  boy  is  all  right 
— lovely  little  chap.  He  hasn't  a  jill  of  the  Hoag 
blood  in  him." 

"I  haven't  seen  Jack  yet,"  Paul  said.     "He  was 
a  baby  when  I  left." 

There  was  the  harsh  clanging  of  a  bell  below; 
Cato  was  vigorously  ringing  it  on  the  back  porch. 

i8i 


Paul     Rundel 

"That's  breakfast  now."  Henry  nodded  toward 
the  door.  ' '  Don't  wait  for  me — I  usually  dodge  the 
old  man.  We've  got  summer  boarders — kin  folks. 
Cousin  Eth'  and  her  mammy  are  here  with  all  their 
finicky  airs.  Eth's  a  full-fledged  young  lady  now 
of  the  Atlanta  upper  crust,  and  what  she  don't 
know  about  what's  proper  and  decent  in  manners 
never  was^written  in  a  book  of  etiquette.  She  be- 
gun to  give  me  lessons  last  year  about  how  and  when 
to  use  a  fork — said  I  made  it  rattle  between  my 
teeth.  I  called  her  down.  She  knows  I  don't  ask 
her  no  odds.  There  is  a  swell  fellow  in  Atlanta,  a 
banker,  Ed  Peterson,  that  comes  up  to  spend  Sun- 
day with  her  now  and  then.  I  never  have  been  able 
to  find  out  whether  Eth'  cares  for  him  or  not.  The 
old  man  likes  him  because  he's  got  money,  and  he's 
trying  to  make  a  match  of  it.  I  think  Aunt  Harriet 
leans  that  way  a  little,  too,  but  I'm  not  sure.  Oh, 
he's  too  dinky-dinky  for  anything — can't  drive  out 
from  town  without  a  nigger  to  hold  his  horse,  and 
wears  kid  gloves  in  hot  weather,  and  twists  his 
mustache." 

Glad  to  get  away  from  the  loquacious  gossip,  Paul 
descended  the  stairs  to  the  dining-room.  Here 
nothing  had  been  changed.  The  same  old-fashioned 
pictures  in  veneered  mahogany  frames  were  hang- 
ing between  the  windows.  The  same  figured  china 
vases  stood  on  the  mantelpiece  over  the  fireplace, 
which  was  filled  with  evergreens,  and  the  hearth  was 
whitewashed  as  when  he  had  last  seen  it.  Mrs. 
Tilton,  looking  considerably  older,  more  wrinkled, 
thinner,  and  bent,  stood  waiting  for  him  at  the  head 
of  the  table. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  ag'in,  Paul,"     She  extended 

182 


Paul     K  II  n  d  c  1 

her  hand  and  smiled  cordially.  "I've  wondered 
many  and  many  a  time  if  you'd  ever  come  back. 
Jim  was  telling  me  about  you  just  now.  How  re- 
lieved you  must  feel  to  find  things  as  they  are! 
Set  down  at  the  side  there.  Jim's  out  among  the 
beehives  with  Jack.  They  have  to  have  a  romp 
every  momin'.  Jack  is  a  big  boy  now,  and  power- 
ful bright.     There,  I  hear  'em  coming." 

"Get  up!  Get  up!  Whoa!"  the  child's  voice 
rang  out,  and  Hoag,  puffing  and  panting,  with  Jack 
astride  his  shoulders,  stood  pawing  like  a  restive 
horse  at  the  edge  of  the  porch. 

"Jump  down  now,"  Hoag  said,  persuasively. 
'    "One  more  round!"  the  boy  cried,  with  a  merry 
laugh. 

"No  ;  off  you  go  or  I'll  dump  you  on  the 
porch." 

"You  can't!"  Jack  retorted.  "You  ain't  no 
Mexican  bronco.  I'll  dig  my  heels  in  your  flanks  and 
stick  on  till  you  are  as  tame  as  a  kitten." 

"No;  get  down  now,  I'm  hungry,"  Hoag  insisted; 
"besides,  we've  got  company,  an'  we  mustn't  keep 
'im  waiting." 

That  seemed  to  settle  the  argument,  and  in  a 
moment  Jack  entered,  casting  shy  glances  at  the 
visitor,  to  w^honi  he  advanced  with  a  slender  hand 
extended. 

"You  can't  remember  me.  Jack,"  Paul  said.  "You 
were  a  little  tot  when  I  left." 

Jack  said  nothing.  He  simply  withdrew  his  hand 
and  took  a  seat  beside  his  father,  against  whom 
he  leaned,  his  big  brown  eyes,  under  long  lashes, 
studiously  regarding  the  visitor.  The  boy  was  re- 
markably beautiful.     His   golden-bro\\ai   hair   was 

183 


Paul     R  un  del 

as  fine  as  cobwebs ;  his  forehead  was  high  and  broad ; 
his  features  were  regular;  his  limbs  slender  and 
well-shaped.  An  experienced  physiognomist  would 
have  known  that  he  possessed  a  sensitive,  artistic 
temperament. 

Paul  heard  little  of  the  casual  talk  that  was  going 
on.  His  elation  clung  to  him  like  an  abiding  reaHty. 
The  sunshine  lay  on  the  grass  before  the  open  door. 
The  lambent  air  was  full  of  the  sounds  pecuHar  to 
the  boyhood  which  had  seemed  so  far  behind  him 
and  yet  had  returned.  Hens  were  clucking  as  they 
scratched  the  earth  and  made  feints  at  pecking  food 
left  uncovered  for  their  chirping  broods.  Wad- 
dling ducks  and  snowy  geese,  with  flapping  wings, 
screamed  one  to  another,  and  innumerable  bird- 
notes  far  and  near,  accompanied  by  the  rat-tat  of 
the  woodpecker,  were  heard.  A  donkey  was  braying. 
A  peacock  with  plumage  proudly  spread  stalked 
majestically  across  the  grass,  displaying  every  color 
of  the  rainbow  in  his  dazzling  robe. 

Breakfast  over,  Hoag  led  Paul  into  the  old- 
fashioned  parlor  and  gave  him  a  cigar.  "I've  got 
to  ride  out  in  the  country,"  he  said,  "an'  so  I  may 
not  see  you  again  till  after  dark.  I've  been  thinkin' 
of  that  proposition  I  sorter  touched  on  last  night. 
Thar  ain't  no  reason  why  me'n  you  can't  git  on. 
We  always  did,  in  our  dealin's  back  thar,  an'  I  need 
a  manager  powerful  bad.  I  paid  t'other  man  a 
hundred  a  month  an'  his  board  throwed  in,  an'  I'm 
willin'  to  start  out  with  you  on  the  same  basis,  sub- 
ject to  change  if  either  of  us  ain't  satisfied.  It's  the 
best  an'  easiest  job  in  this  county  by  long  odds. 
What  do  you  say?     Is  it  a  go?" 

"I'm  very  glad  to  get  it,"  Paul  answered.     "I 

184 


Paul     ]l  u  n  d  e  1 

shall  remain  here  in  the  mountains,  and  I  want  to 
be  busy.     I'll  do  my  best  to  serve  you." 

"Well,  that's  settled,"  Hoag  said,  in  a  tone  of 
relief.  "Knock  about  as  you  like  to-day,  and  to- 
morrow we'll  ride  around  an'  look  the  ground  over." 

13 


CHAPTER  IV 

PAUL'S  first  impulse,  on  finding  himself  alone, 
was  to  walk  to  Grayson  and  look  up  his  old 
friends;  but  so  new  and  vivifying  was  his  freedom 
from  the  cares  which  had  so  long  haunted  him  that 
he  wanted  to  hug  the  sense  of  it  to  himself  still 
longer  in  solitude.  So,  leaving  the  farm-house,  he 
went  to  the  summit  of  a  little  wooded  hill  back  of 
the  tannery  and  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  the  trees. 
In  his  boundless  joy  he  actually  felt  imponderable. 
He  had  an  ethereal  sense  of  being  free  from  his 
body,  of  flying  in  the  azure  above  the  earth,  float- 
ing upon  the  fleecy  clouds.  He  noticed  a  wind- 
blown drift  of  fragrant  pine-needles  in  the  cleft  of 
a  rock  close  by,  and  creeping  into  the  cool  nook 
like  a  beast  into  its  lair,  he  threw  himself  down 
and  chuckled  and  laughed  in  sheer  delight. 

Ethel,  little  Ethel,  who  had  once  been  his  friend 
— who  had  prayed  for  him  and  wept  with  him  in 
sorrow — was  coming.  That  very  day  he  was  to 
see  her  again  after  all  those  years;  but  she  would 
not  look  the  same.  She  was  no  longer  a  child. 
She  had  changed  as  he  had  changed.  Would  she 
know  him?  Would  she  even  remember  him — the 
gawky  farm-hand  she  had  so  sweetly  befriended? 
No;  it  was  likely  that  he  and  all  that  pertained  to 
him  had  passed  out  of  her  mind.  The  memory  of 
her,   however,  had  been  his  constant  companion; 

i86 


Paul     Rundel 

her  pure,  childish  faith  had  been  an  ultimate  factor 
in  his  redemption. 

The  morning  hours  passed.  It  was  noon,  and  the 
climbing  sun  dropped  its  direct  rays  full  upon  him. 
He  left  the  rocks  and  stood  out  in  the  open,  un- 
baring his  brow  to  the  cooling  breeze  which  swept 
up  from  the  fields  of  grain  and  cotton.  His  eyes 
rested  on  the  red  road  leading  to  the  village.  Wagons, 
pedestrians,  droves  of  sheep  and  cattle  driven  by 
men  on  horses,  were  passing  back  and  forth.  Sud- 
denly his  heart  sprang  like  a  startled  thing  within 
him.  Surely  that  was  Hoag's  open  carriage,  with 
Cato  on  the  high  seat  in  front.  Yes,  and  of  the  two 
ladies  who  sat  behind  under  sunshades  the  nearer 
one  was  Ethel.  Paul  turned  cold  from  head  to  foot, 
and  fell  to  trembling.  How  strange  to  see  her, 
even  at  that  distance,  in  the  actual  flesh,  when  for 
seven  years  she  had  been  a  dream!  A  blinding 
mist  fell  before  his  eyes,  and  when  he  had  brushed 
it  away  the  carriage  had  passed  out  of  view  behind 
the  intervening  trees.  In  great  agitation  he  paced 
to  and  fro.  How  could  he  possibly  command  himself 
sufficiently  to  face  her  in  a  merely  conventional 
way  ?  He  had  met  women  and  won  their  friendship 
in  the  West,  and  had  felt  at  ease  in  good  society. 
But  this  was  different.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  now 
unable  to  see  himself  as  other  than  the  awkward, 
stammering  lad  clothed  in  the  rags  of  the  class  to 
which  he  belonged. 

Hardly  knowing  what  step  to  take,  he  turned 
down  the  incline  toward  the  farm-house,  thinking 
that  he  might  gain  his  room  unseen  by  the  two 
ladies.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  was  a  great, 
deep  spring,  and  feeling  thirsty  he  paused  to  bend 

187 


Paul     Riindel 

down  and  drink  from  the  surface,  as  he  had  done 
when  a  boy.  Drawing  himself  erect,  he  was  about 
to  go  on,  when  his  eye  caught  a  flash  of  a  brown 
skirt  among  the  drooping  willows  that  bordered  the 
stream,  and  Ethel  came  out,  her  hands  full  of 
maiden-hair  ferns.  At  first  she  did  not  see  him, 
busy  as  she  was  shaking  the  water  from  the  ferns 
and  arranging  them.  She  wore  a  big  straw  hat,  a 
close-fitting  shirt-waist,  and  a  neat  linen  skirt. 
How  much  she  was  changed!  She  was  taller,  her 
glorious  hair,  if  a  shade  darker,  seemed  more  abun- 
dant. She  was  slender  still,  and  yet  there  was  a  cer- 
tain fullness  to  her  form  which  added  grace  and 
dignity  to  the  picture  he  had  so  long  treasured. 
Suddenly,  while  he  stood  as  if  rooted  in  the  ground, 
she  glanced  up  and  saw  him. 

"Oh!"  he  heard  her  ejaculate,  and  he  fancied 
that  her  color  heightened  a  trifle.  Transferring  the 
ferns  to  her  left  hand,  she  swept  toward  him  as  light- 
ly as  if  borne  on  a  breeze,  her  right  hand  held  out 
cordially.  "I  really  wouldn't  have  known  you, 
Paul,"  she  smiled,  "if  Uncle  Jim  had  not  told  me 
you  were  here.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!" 

As  he  held  her  soft  hand  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  drawing  self-possession  and  faith  in  himself 
from  her  ample  store  of  cordiality. 

"I  would  have  known  you  anywhere,"  he  heard 
himself  saying,  quite  frankly.  "And  yet  you  have 
changed  very,  very  much." 

Thereupon  he  lost  himself  completely  in  the  be- 
witching spell  of  her  face  and  eyes.  He  had  thought 
her  beautiful  as  a  little  girl,  but  he  had  not  counted 
on  seeing  her  like  this — on  finding  himself  fairly 
torn  asunder  by  a  force  belonging  peculiarly  to  her. 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

He  marveled  over  his  emotions — even  feared  them, 
as  he  stole  glances  at  her  long-lashcd,  dreamy  eyes, 
witnessed  the  sunrise  of  delicate  embarrassment 
in  her  rounded  cheeks,  and  caught  the  ripened 
cadences  of  the  voice  which  had  haunted  him  like 
music  heard  in  a  trance. 

"You  have  changed  a  great  deal,"  she  was  say- 
ing, as  she  led  him  toward  the  spring.  "A  young 
man  changes  more  when — when  there  really  is 
something  unusual  in  him.  I  was  only  a  little  girl 
when  I  knew  you,  Paul,  but  I  was  sure  that  you 
would  succeed  in  the  world.  At  least  I  counted  on 
it  till—" 

"Till  I  acted  as  I  did,"  he  said,  sadly,  prompted 
by  her  hesitation. 

She  looked  at  him  directly,  though  her  glance 
wavered  slightly. 

"If  I  lost  hope  then,"  she  replied,  "it  was  be- 
cause I  could  not  look  far  enough  into  the  future. 
Surely  it  has  turned  out  for  the  best.  Uncle  told 
me  why  you  came  back.  Oh,  I  think  that  is  wonder- 
ful, wonderful!  Till  now  I  have  never  believed 
such  a  thing  possible  of  a  man,  and  yet  I  know  it 
now  because — because  you  did  it." 

He  avoided  her  appealing  eyes,  looking  away  into 
the  blue,  sunlit  distance.  His  lip  shook  when  he 
answered : 

"Some  day  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  I'll  unfold 
it  to  you  like  a  book,  page  by  page,  chapter  by 
chapter.  It  is  a  story  that  opens  in  the  blackness 
of  night  and  ends  in  the  blaze  of  a  new  day." 

"I  know  what  you  mean — oh,  I  know!"  Ethel 
sighed.  "The  news  of  that  night  was  my  first 
realization  of  life's  grim  cruelty.     Somehow  I  felt — 

189 


Paul     Rundel 

I  suppose  other  imaginative  girls  are  the  same  way 
— I  felt  that  it  was  a  sort  of  personal  matter  to  me 
because  I  had  met  you  as  I  had.  I  didn't  blame  you. 
I  couldn't  understand  it  fully,  but  I  felt  that  it  was 
simply  a  continuation  of  your  ill-luck.  I  cried  all 
that  night.  I  could  not  go  to  sleep.  I  kept  fancying 
I  saw  you  running  away  through  the  mountains 
with  all  those  men  trying  to  catch  you." 

"So  you  didn't — really  blame  me?"  Paul  faltered. 
"You  didn't  think  me  so  very,  very  bad?" 

"No,  I  think  I  made  a  sort  of  martyr  of  you," 
Ethel  confessed.  "I  knew  you  did  it  impulsively, 
highly  wrought  up  as  you  were  over  your  poor 
father'  s  death.  You  can't  imagine  how  I  worried  the 
first  few  days  after — after  you  left.  You  see,  no  one 
knew  whether  Jeff  Warren  would  live  or  not.  Oh,  I 
was  happy,  Paul,  when  the  doctor  declared  he  was 
out  of  danger !  I  would  have  given  a  great  deal  then 
to  have  known  how  to  reach  you,  but — but  no  one 
knew.  Then,  somehow,  as  the  years  passed,  the 
impression  got  out  that  you  were  dead.  Every- 
body seemed  to  believe  it  except  old  Mr.  Tye,  the 
shoemaker." 

"My  faithful  old  friend!"  Paul  said.  "He  was 
constantly  giving  me  good  advice  which  I  refused 
to  take." 

' '  I  sometimes  go  into  his  shop  and  sit  and  talk  to 
him,"  Ethel  continued.  "He  is  a  queer  old  man, 
more  like  a  saint  than  an  ordinary  human  being. 
He  declares  he  is  in  actual  communion  with  God — 
says  he  has  visions  of  things  not  seen  by  ordinary 
sight.  He  told  me  once,  not  long  ago,  that  you 
were  safe  and  well,  and  that  you  would  come  home 
again,  and  be  happier  than  you  ever  were  before. 

190 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

I  remember  I  tried  to  hope  that  he  knew.     How 
strange  that  he  guessed  aright!" 

"I  understand  him  now  better  than  I  did  when 
I  was  here,"  Paul  returned.  "I  didn't  know  it  then, 
but  I  now  believe  such  men  as  he  are  spiritually 
wiser  than  all  the  astute  materialists  the  world  has 
produced.  What  they  know  they  get  by  intuition, 
and  that  comes  from  the  very  fountain  of  infinite 
wisdom  to  the  humble  perhaps  more  than  [^to  the 
high  and  mighty." 

"I  am  very  happy  to  see  you  again,"  Ethel  de- 
clared, a  shadow  crossing  her  face;  "but,  Paul,  you 
find  me — you  happen  to  find  me  in  really  great 
trouble." 

"You!"  he  cried.     "Why?" 

Ethel  breathed  out  a  tremulous  sigh.  "You 
have  heard  me  speak  of  my  cousin,  Jennie  Buford. 
She  and  I  are  more  intimate  than  most  sisters. 
We  have  been  together  almost  daily  all  our  lives. 
She  is  very  ill.  We  were  down  to  see  her  yesterday. 
She  had  an  operation  performed  at  a  hospital  a  week 
ago,  and  her  condition  is  quite  critical.  We  would 
not  have  come  back  up  here,  but  no  one  is  allowed 
to  see  her,  and  I  could  be  of  no  service.  I  am  afraid 
she  is  going  to  die,  and  if  she  should — "  Ethel's 
voice  clogged,  and  her  eyes  filled. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  Paul  said,  "but  you  mustn't  give 
up  hope." 

' '  Life  seems  so  cruel — such  a  great  waste  of  every- 
thing that  is  really  worth  while,"  Ethel  said,  re- 
belliously.  "Jennie's  mother  and  father  are  almost 
crazed  with  grief.  Jennie  is  engaged  to  a  nice  young 
man  down  there,  and  he  is  prostrated  over  it.  Why, 
oh  why,  do  such  things  happen?" 

191 


Paul     Rundel 

"There  is  a  good  reason  for  everything,"  Paul  re- 
plied, a  flare  of  gentle  encouragement  in  his  serious 
eyes.  "Often  the  things  that  seem  the  worst  really 
are  the  best  in  the  end." 

"There  can  be  nothing  good,  or  kind,  or  wise  in 
Jennie's  suffering,"  Ethel  declared,  her  pretty  lips 
hardening,  a  shudder  passing  over  her.  "She  is 
a  sweet,  good  girl,  and  her  parents  are  devout 
church  members.  The  young  man  she  is  engaged 
to  is  the  soul  of  honor,  and  yet  all  of  us  are  suffering 
sheer  agony." 

"You  must  try  not  to  look  at  it  quite  that  way," 
Paul  insisted,  gently.  "You  must  hope  and  pray 
for  her  recovery." 

Ethel  shrugged  her  shoulders,  buried  her  face  in 
the  ferns,  and  was  silent.  Presently,  looking  tow- 
ard the  farm-house,  she  said :  "I  see  mother  waiting 
for  me.  Good-by,  I'll  meet  you  at  luncheon."  She 
was  moving  away,  but  paused  and  turned  back. 
"You  may  think  me  lacking  in  religious  feeling," 
she  faltered,  her  glance  averted,  "but  I  am  very, 
very  unhappy.  I  am  sure  the  doctors  are  not  tell- 
ing us  everything.  I  am  afraid  I'll  never  see  Jennie 
alive  again." 

He  heard  her  sob  as  she  abruptly  turned  away. 
He  had  an  impulsive  desire  to  follow  and  make  a 
further  effort  to  console  her,  but  he  felt  instinctively 
that  she  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  was  sure  of  this 
a  moment  later,  for  he  saw  her  using  her  handker- 
chief freely,  and  noted  that  she  all  but  stumbled 
along  the  path  leading  up  to  the  house.  Mrs.  May- 
field  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  veranda,  and  Paul 
saw  the  older  lady  step  down  to  the  ground  and 
hasten  to  meet  her  daughter. 

192 


Paul     Rundel 

"Poor,  dear  girl!"  Paul  said  to  himself,  his  face 
raised  to  the  cloud-flecked  sky.  "Have  I  passed 
through  my  darkness  and  come  out  into  the  light, 
only  to  see  her  entering  hers?  O  merciful  God, 
spare,  her!  spare  her!" 


CHAPTER  V 

THAT  afternoon  Paul  went  to  Grayson,  noting 
few  changes  in  the  place.  The  sun  was  fiercely 
beating  down  on  the  streets  of  the  Square.  Two 
or  three  lawyers,  a  magistrate,  the  county  ordi- 
nary, and  the  clerk  of  the  court  sat  in  chairs  on 
the  shaded  side  of  the  Court  House.  Some  were 
whittling  sticks,  others  were  playing  checkers,  all 
were  talking  politics.  Under  the  board  awnings 
in  front  of  the  stores  the  merchants  sat  without 
their  coats,  fighting  the  afternoon  heat  by  fanning 
themselves  and  sprinkHng  water  on  the  narrow 
brick  sidewalks.  A  group  of  one-horse  drays,  on 
which  idle  negroes  sat  dangling  their  legs  and  teas- 
ing one  another,  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  hotel. 
The  only  things  suggesting  coolness  were  the  tower- 
ing mountains,  the  green  brows  of  which  rose  into 
the  snowy,  breeze-blown  clouds  overhead. 

Paul  found  Silas  Tye  at  his  bench  in  his  shop. 
He  was  scarcely  changed  at  all.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
to  be  wearing  exactly  the  same  clothing,  using  the 
same  tools,  mending  the  same  shoes.  On  his  bald 
pate  glistened  beads  of  sweat  which  burst  now  and 
then  and  trickled  down  to  his  bushy  eyebrows. 
Paul  had  approached  noiselessly,  and  was  standing 
looking  in  at  him  from  the  doorway,  when  the  shoe- 
maker glanced  up  and  saw  him.  With  an  ejacula- 
tion of  delight  he  dropped  his  work  and  advanced 
quickly,  a  grimy  hand  held  out. 

194 


Paul     Run  del 

"Here  you  are,  here  you  are!"  he  cried,  drawing 
the  young  man  into  the  shop.  "Bearded  and 
brown,  bigger  an'  stronger,  but  the  same  Paul 
I  used  to  know.  How  are  you?  How  are 
you?". 

"I'm  all  right,  thank  you,"  Paul  answered,  as  he 
took  the  chair  near  the  bench  and  sat  down.  ' '  How 
is  Mrs.  Tye?" 

"Sound  as  a  dollar,  and  simply  crazy  to  see  you," 
Silas  replied,  with  a  chuckle.  "If  you  hadn't  come 
in  we'd  'a'  got  a  boss  an'  buggy  from  Sid  Trawley's 
stable  an'  'a'  rid  out  to  see  you.  Jim  Hoag  this 
momin'  was  tellin'  about  you  gittin'  back,  an'  said 
he'd  already  hired  you  to  manage  for  him.  Good- 
luck,  good-luck,  my  boy ;  that's  a  fine  job.  Cynthy's 
just  stepped  over  to  a  neighbor's,  an'  will  be  back 
purty  soon.  Oh,  she  was  tickled  when  she  heard 
the  news — she  was  so  excited  she  could  hardly  cat 
her  dinner.  She  thought  a  sight  of  you.  In  fact, 
both  of  us  sort  o'  laid  claim  to  you." 

"Till  I  disgraced  myself  and  had  to  run  away," 
Paul  sighed.  "I'm  ashamed  of  that.  Uncle  Si.  I 
want  to  say  that  to  you  first  of  all." 

"Don't  talk  that  way."  Silas  waved  his  awl 
deprecatingly.  "Thank  the  Lord  for  what  it's  led 
to.  Hoag  was  tellin'  the  crowd  how  you  come  back 
to  give  yourself  up.  Said  he  believed  it  of  you,  but 
wouldn't  of  anybody  else.  Lord,  Lord,  that  was 
the  best  news  I  ever  heard!  Young  as  you  are, 
you'll  never  imagine  how  much  good  an  act  o'  that 
sort  will  do  in  a  community  like  this.  It  is  a  great 
moral  lesson.  As  I  understand  it,  you  fought  the 
thing  with  all  your  might  and  main — tried  to  for- 
get it,  tried  to  live  it  down,  only  in  the  end  to  find 

195 


Paul     Rundel 

that  nothin'  would  satisfy   you  —  no  thin'    but   to 
come  back  here  and  do  your  duty." 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  Paul  assented.  "I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  some  time.  I'm  simply  too  happy 
now  to  look  back  on  such  disagreeable  things.  It 
was  awful,  Uncle  Si." 

"I  know,  and  I  don't  blame  you  for  not  talking 
about  it,"  the  old  man  said.  "Sad  things  are  better 
left  behind.  But  it  is  all  so  glorious!  Here  you 
come  with  your  young  head  bowed  before  the  Lord, 
ready  to  receive  your  punishment,  only  to  find 
yourself  free,  free  as  the  winds  of  heaven,  the  flow- 
ers of  the  fields,  the  birds  in  the  woods.  Oh,  Paul, 
you  can't  see  it,  but  joy  is  shining  out  o'  you  like  a 
spiritual  fire.  Your  skin  is  clear;  your  honest  eyes 
twinkle  like  stars.  It's  worth  it — your  reward  is 
worth  all  you've  been  through,  an'  more.  Life  is 
built  that  way.  We  have  hunger  to  make  us  enjoy 
eatin';  cold,  that  we  may  know  how  nice  warmth 
feels;  pain,  that  we  may  appreciate  health;  evil, 
that  we  may  know  good  when  we  see  it;  misery, 
that  we  may  have  joy,  and  death,  that  we  may  have 
bliss  everlasting.  I've  no  doubt  you've  suffered, 
but  it  has  rounded  you  out  and  made  you  strong 
as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  I  reckon  you'll 
look  up  all  your  old  acquaintances  right  away." 

Paul's  glance  went  to  the  Httered  floor.  "First 
of  all.  Uncle  Si,  I  want  to  inquire  about  my  mother." 

"Oh,  I  see."  The  cobbler  seemed  to  sense  the 
situation  as  a  delicate  one,  and  he  paused  signifi- 
cantly. "Me  an'  Cynthy  talked  about  that  this 
momin'.  In  fact,  we  are  both  sort  o'  bothered 
over  it.  Paul,  I  don't  think  anybody  round  here 
knows   whar   your   ma   an'   Jeff    moved    to   after 

196 


Paul     Rundel 

they  got  married.     But  your  aunt  went  with  *em; 
she  was  bound  to  stick  to  your  ma." 

"They   married" — Paul's   words   came   tardily — 
"very  soon  after — after  Warren  recovered,  I  sup- 


pose 


?" 


"No;  she  kept  him  waitin'  two  years.  Thar  was 
an  awful  mess  amongst  'em.  Your  ma  an'  your 
aunt  stood  for  you  to  some  extent,  but  Jeff  was 
awful  bitter.  The  trouble  with  Jeff  was  that  he'd 
never  been  wounded  by  anybody  in  his  life  before, 
an'  that  a  strip  of  a  boy  should  shove  'im  an  inch 
o'  death's  door  an'  keep  'im  in  bed  so  long  was  a 
thing  that  rankled.  Folks  about  here  done  'em 
both  the  credit  to  think  you  acted  too  hasty,  an' 
some  thought  Jim  Hoag  was  back  of  it.  The  reason 
your  ma  kept  Jeff  waitin'  so  long  was  to  show  the 
public  that  she  hadn't  done  nothin'  she  was  ashamed 
of,  an'  folks  generally  sympathized  with  'er.  Finally 
she  agreed  to  marry  Jeff  if  he'd  withdraw  the  case 
ag'in'  you.  It  was  like  pullin'  eye-teeth,  but  Jeff 
finally  give  in  an'  had  a  lawyer  fix  it  all  up.  But 
he  was  mad,  and  is  yet,  I've  no  doubt." 

"I  understand."  Paul  was  looking  wistfully  out 
of  the  window  into  the  street.  "And  would  you 
advise  me,  Uncle  Si,  to — to  try  to  find  them?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  would,"  Silas  opined  slowly,  his 
heavy  brows  meeting  above  his  spectacles;  "at  least 
not  at  present,  Paul.  I'd  simply  wait  an'  hope  for 
matters  to  drift  into  a  little  better  shape.  Jeff  is  a 
bad  man,  a  fellow  that  holds  a  grudge,  and,  late  as  it 
is,  he'd  want  a  settlement  o'  some  sort.  I've  talked 
to  him.  I've  tried  to  reason  with  him,  but  nothin' 
I'd  say  would  have  any  weight.  I  reckon  he's  been 
teased  about  it,  an'  has  put  up  with  a  good  many 

197 


Paul     Rundel 

insinuations.  Let  'em  all  three  alone  for  the  pres- 
ent. You've  got  a  high  temper  yourself,  an'  while 
you  may  think  you  could  control  it,  you  might  not 
be  able  to  do  it  if  a  big  hulk  of  a  man  like  Jeff  was 
to  jump  on  you  an'  begin  to  pound  you." 

"No;  I  see  that  you  are  right,"  Paul  sighed; 
"but  I  am  sorry,  for  I'd  like  my  mother  to  under- 
stand how  I  feel.  She  may  think  I  still  blame  her 
for — for  fancying  Warren,  even  when  my  father  was 
alive,  but  I  don't.  Rubbing  up  against  the  world. 
Uncle  Si,  teaches  one  a  great  many  things.  My 
mother  was  only  obeying  a  natural  yearning.  She 
was  seeking  an  ideal  which  my  poor  father  could  not 
fulfil.  He  was  ill,  despondent,  suspicious,  and 
faultfinding,  and  she  was  like  a  spoiled  child.  I 
am  sure  she  never  really  loved  him.  I  was  in  the 
wrong.  No  one  could  know  that  better  than  I  do. 
When  I  went  away  that  awful  night  I  actually 
hated  her,  but  as  the  years  went  by,  Uncle  Si, 
a  new  sort  of  tenderness  and  love  stole  over  me. 
When  I'd  see  other  men  happy  with  their  mothers 
my  heart  would  sink  as  I  remembered  that  I  had  a 
living  one  who  was  dead  to  me.  Her  face  grew  sweet- 
er and  more  girl-like.  I  used  to  recall  how  she 
smiled,  and  how  pretty  and  different  from  other 
women  she  looked  wearing  the  nice  things  Aunt 
Amanda  used  to  make  for  her.  I'd  have  dreams  in 
which  I'd  hear  her  singing  and  laughing  and  talk- 
ing, and  I'd  wake  with  the  weighty  feeling  that  I 
had  lost  my  chance  at  a  mother.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  if  I  had  not  been  so  hasty" — Paul  sighed — 
"she  and  I  would  have  loved  each  other,  and  I 
could  have  had  the  joy  of  providing  her  with  many 
comforts." 

198 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

Silas  lowered  his  head  toward  his  lap.  The  pegs, 
hammer  and  awl,  and  scraps  of  leather  jostled  to- 
gether in  his  apron.  He  was  weeping  and  valiantly 
trying  to  hide  his  tears.  He  took  off  his  spectacles 
and  laid  them  on  the  bench  beside  him.  Only  his 
bald  pate  was  in  view.  Presently  an  uncontrolla- 
ble sob  broke  from  his  rugged  chest,  and  he  looked 
at  the  young  man  with  swimming  eyes. 

"You've  been  redeemed,"  he  said.  "I  see  it — 
I  see  it!  Nobody  but  a  Son  of  God  could  look  and 
talk  like  you  do.  My  reward  has  come.  I  don't 
take  it  to  myself — that  would  be  a  sin;  but  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I've  prayed  for  you  every  day  and 
night  since  you  left — sometimes  in  much  fear  an' 
doubt,  but  with  a  better  feelin'  afterw^ard.  You 
may  not  believe  it,  but  I  am  sure  there  are  times 
when  I  actually  know  that  things  are  happenin' 
for  good  or  ill  to  folks  I  love — even  away  off  at  a 
distance." 

"That  is  a  scientific  fact."  Paul  was  greatly 
moved  by  his  old  friend's  tone  and  attitude.  "It  is 
a  spiritual  fact  according  to  the  laws  of  telepathy 
or  thought-transference.  Most  scientists  now  be- 
lieve in  it." 

"You  say  they  do?"  Silas  was  wiping  his  flow- 
ing eyes  and  adjusting  his  spectacles.  "Well,  many 
and  many  a  time  I've  had  proof  of  it.  I  could  tell 
wonders  that  I've  experienced,  but  I  won't  now — 
that  is,  I  won't  tell  you  of  but  one  thing,  an'  that 
concerned  you.  Last  Christmas  Eve  me'n  Cynthy 
had  cooked  a  big  turkey  for  the  next  day,  an'  made 
a  lot  o'  other  preparations.  We  had  toys  an'  little 
tricks  to  give  this  child  and  that  one.  We  had  laid 
in  things  for  pore  neighbors  to  eat  and  wear,  an'  both 

199 


Paul     Rundel 

of  us  was  in  about  as  jolly  a  mood  as  ever  we  was  in 
all  our  lives.  We  set  up  rather  late  that  night,  an' 
sung  an'  read  from  the  Bible,  an'  prayed  as  usual, 
an'  then  we  went  to  bed.  But  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  got 
to  thinkin'  about  you  an'  wonderin'  whar  you  was 
at  an'  what  sort  o'  Christmas  you  was  to  have.  I 
rolled  an'  tumbled.  Cynthy  was  asleep — the  pore 
thing  was  awful  tired — an'  I  got  up  an'  went  to  the 
fireplace,  where  I  had  buried  some  coals  in  the  ashes 
to  Idndle  from  in  the  momin'  and  bent  over,  still 
thinkin'  o'  you.  Then  all  at  once — I  don't  know 
how  to  describe  it  any  other  way  than  to  say  it  was 
like  a  big,  black,  soggy  weight  that  come  down  on 
me.  It  bore  in  from  all  sides,  like  a  cloud  that  you 
can  feel,  an'  I  could  hardly  breathe.  Then  some- 
thing— it  wasn't  a  voice,  it  wasn't  words  spoke 
out  of  any  human  mouth,  it  was  just  knowledge — 
knowledge  plainer  and  deeper  than  words  could  have 
expressed — knowledge  from  God,  from  space — from 
some'r's  outside  myself — that  told  me  you  was  in  a 
sad,  sad  plight.  I  couldn't  say  what  it  was,  but 
it  was  awful.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  was  swayin' 
to  an'  fro  between  good  an'  evil,  between  light  and 
darkness — between  eternal  life  an'  eternal  death. 
I  never  felt  so  awful  in  all  my  life,  not  even  when 
my  own  boy  died.  I  got  down  on  my  knees  there 
in  the  ashes,  and  I  prayed  as  I  reckon  never  a  man 
prayed  before.  I  pleaded  with  the  Lord  and  begged 
'im  to  help  you — to  drag  you  back  from  the  open 
pit  or  abyss,  or  whatever  it  was,  that  you  was  about 
to  walk  into.  For  awhile  the  thing  seemed  to  hang 
an'  waver  like,  and  then,  all  at  once,  it  was  lifted, 
an'  I  knowed  that  you  was  safe.  I  knowed  it — I 
knowed  it." 

200 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

Silas  ceased  speaking,  his  mild,  melting  glance 
rested  on  the  young  man's  face. 

Paul  sat  in  grave  silence  for  a  moment,  his  feat- 
ures drawn  as  by  painful  recollection. 

"Your  intuition  was  right,"  he  said.  "On  that 
night,  Uncle  vSi,  I  met  and  passed  through  the  great- 
est crisis  of  my  life.  I  was  tempted  to  take  a  step 
that  was  wrong.  I  won't  speak  of  it  now,  but  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  some  day.  Something  stopped 
me.  Invisible  hands  seemed  pushed  out  from  the 
darkness  to  hold  me  back.  Your  prayers  saved  me, 
I  am  sure  of  it  now." 

14 


CHAPTER  VI 

BEFORE  the  end  of  his  first  week's  work  Paul 
had  reason  to  beheve  that  Hoag  was  highly 
pleased  with  his  executive  ability.  Paul  had  a  good 
saddle-horse  at  his  disposal,  and  he  made  daily 
visits  to  the  various  properties  of  his  employer.  He 
hired  hands  at  his  own  discretion,  and  had  a  new 
plan  of  placing  them  on  their  honor  as  to  the  work 
that  was  to  be  done  in  his  absence.  Hoag  was 
surprised.  He  had  found  it  difficult  to  secure 
sufficient  men,  while  under  Paul's  management  the 
places  were  always  filled.  There  was  a  clockwork 
regularity  in  it  all.  From  his  window  every  morn- 
ing at  sunrise  Hoag  could  see  men  diligently  at  work 
in  his  fields,  and  at  the  tannery  and  mill.  There 
was  a  fresh,  buoyant  activity  in  it  all.  The  young 
man  had  replaced  old,  worn-out  tools  and  imple- 
ments with  new  ones,  in  wliich  the  workers  took 
pride. 

Paul's  room  looked  as  much  like  an  office  as  a 
bedchamber.  On  his  table  Hoag  discovered  a  most 
orderly  set  of  accounts;  on  the  walls  hung  charts, 
time-cards,  and  maps  of  the  woodlands,  with  careful 
estimates  of  the  cost  of  felling  trees  and  the  best 
disposition  of  the  bark  and  timber.  There  was 
little  doubt  that  Paul  was  infusing  the  spirit  of  the 
West  into  the  slower  habits  of  the  South,  and 
Hoag  chuckled  inwardly,  finding  it  difficult  to  keep 
from  openly  expressing  his  enthusiasm.     Paul  con- 

202 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

vinced  him,  in  a  moment's  talk,  that  the  steam- 
engine  and  machinery  at  the  cotton-gin  were  worn 
out,  and  that  the  whole  should  be  renewed.  Hoag 
saw,  too,  that  the  young  man  was  right  when  he 
called  attention  to  the  careless  manner  in  which 
the  cotton  lands  had  been  fertilized.  The  negroes 
had  used  no  judgment  in  placing  the  guano,  hav- 
ing often  put  it  on  soil  that  did  not  need  it — soil 
which  could  better  be  enriched  by  the  till  now 
unused  loam  of  the  marshes  and  the  decayed  matter 
of  the  forests. 

"Go  ahead  with  yore  rat-killin',"  Hoag  was  fond 
of  saying.  "You've  got  the  right  idea.  I'm  not 
such  a  old  dog  that  I  can't  learn  new  tricks.  Them 
fellows  out  West  know  a  good  many  twists  and 
turns  that  we  ain't  onto,  an'  I'm  willin'  to  back 
you  up  with  the  cash  on  anything  you  propose." 

His  niece  was  with  him  on  the  lawn  one  morning 
as  he  was  opening  his  mail. 

"Just  look  at  that  letter,"  he  said,  with  a  low, 
pleased  laugh,  as  he  offered  it  for  inspection.  "I'm 
in  a  cool  thousand  dollars  on  this  one  deal.  My 
scrub  of  a  white-trash  manager  told  me  last  week 
that  the  man  in  Atlanta  who  has  been  handlin' 
my  leather  was  buncoin'  me  good  an'  strong.  I 
didn't  think  he  knowed  what  he  was  talkin'  about 
then,  but  it  seems  he'd  been  readin'  market  reports 
an'  freight  rates,  an'  now  I  know  he  was  right.  He 
asked  me  to  write  to  Nashville  for  prices.  I  did, 
an*  here  is  an  offer  that  is  away  ahead  of  any  my 
Atlanta  agent  ever  got,  an'  I  save  his  commission 
to  boot.  Who'd  'a'  thought,  Eth',  that  such  a 
puny  no-account  skunk  as  Ralph  Rundel  could  be 
the  daddy  o'  sech  an  up-to-date  chap  as  Paul?" 

203 


Paul     Run  del 

Ethel's  sweet  face  took  on  a  serious  cast.  "I 
don't  think  we  ought  to  judge  our  mountain  people 
by  their  present  unfortunate  condition,"  she  said. 
"I  was  reading  in  history  the  other  day  that  many 
of  them  are  really  the  descendants  of  good  English, 
Scotch,  and  Irish  families.  I  have  an  idea,  from  his 
name  alone,  that  Paul  came  from  some  family  of 
worth." 

"You  may  be  right,"  Hoag  admitted.  "I  know 
my  daddy  used  to  tell  us  boys  that  the  Hoag  stock 
away  back  in  early  times  was  big  fighters,  not 
afraid  o'  man,  Indian,  or  beast.  One  of  'em  was  a 
pirate  of  the  high  seas,  who  had  his  own  way  purty 
much,  and  died  with  his  boots  on.  Pa  was  proud 
o'  that.  He  used  to  set  an'  tell  about  it.  He 
learnt  us  boys  to  fight  when  we  wasn't  more'n  knee 
high.  The  hardest  lickin'  Pa  ever  give  me  was 
for  comin'  home  from  school  cryin'  once  because 
another  chap  had  got  the  best  of  me.  I  never  shall 
forget  it.  Pa  was  as  mad  as  a  wildcat  at  me,  an' 
t'other  fellow  too.  An'  the  next  mornin',  as  I 
started  to  school,  he  tuck  me  out  in  the  yard  an' 
picked  up  a  sharp  rock,  he  did,  an'  showed  me  how 
to  cup  my  hand  over  it  and  sorter  hide  it  like.  He 
told  me  to  keep  it  in  my  pocket,  an'  if  the  fellow 
said  another  word  to  me  to  use  it  on  'im  like  a  pair 
o'  brass  knucks." 

.    "Oh,"  Ethel  cried,  "that  wasn't  right!    It  was 
a  shame!" 

"That's  what  the  fellow  thought."  Hoag  burst 
out  laughing.  "He  was  standin'  in  a  gang  braggin' 
about  our  fight  when  I  got  to  school  an'  I  went  up 
to  'im,  I  did,  an'  spit  on  him.  He  drawed  back  to 
hit  me,  but  I  let  'im  have  a  swipe  with  my  rock 

204 


Paul     R  II  n  d  e  1 

that  laid  his  jaw  open  to  the  bone.  He  loled  Hke 
a  stuck  pig,  an'  had  to  git  a  doctor  to  sew  the  crack 
up.  After  that  you  bet  he  let  me  alone,  an'  folks 
in  general  knowed  I  wouldn't  do  to  fool  with,  either. 
The  teacher  o'  that  school — it  was  jest  a  log  shack 
in  the  country — ^used  to  use  the  hickory  on  the  boys, 
an'  I've  seen  'im  even  tap  the  bare  legs  o'  the  gals; 
but  he  never  dared  touch  me.  He  knowed  better. 
He  drawed  me  up  before  'im  one  day  for  stickin'  a 
pin  in  a  little  runt  of  a  boy,  and  axed  me  what  I 
done  it  for.  I  looked  'im  straight  in  the  eyes,  an' 
told  'im  I  did  it  because  it  would  make  the  boy 
grow.  I  axed  'im  what  he  expected  to  do  about  it. 
He  had  a  switch  in  his  hand,  but  he  turned  red  an' 
hummed  an'  hawed  while  the  whole  school  was 
laughin',  an'  then  he  backed  down — crawfished  on 
the  spot — said  he'd  see  me  about  it  after  school; 
but  I  didn't  stay,  an'  that  was  the  end  of  it.  The 
man  on  the  farm  whar  he  boarded  told  Pa  that  the 
fellow  was  afraid  to  go  out  at  night,  thinkin'  I'd 
throw  rocks  at  'im.  Say,  Eth',  not  changin'  the 
subject,  how  are  you  an'  Ed  Peterson  gittin'  on?" 

"Oh,  about  the  same,"  Ethel  answered,  with  a 
slight  shrug.  "I  got  a  letter  from  him  yesterday. 
He  had  been  to  the  hospital  to  inquire  about  Jen- 
nie, and  he  thought  I'd  like  to  hear  she  wasn't  any 
worse." 

"Well,  it  ain't  no  business  o'  mine,"  Hoag 
smiled  knowingly,  "but  I  hope  you  won't  keep  the 
fellow  in  torment  any  longer  than  you  can  help. 
He  sorter  confides  in  me,  you  know,  an'  every  time 
I'm  in  Atlanta  he  throws  out  hints  like  he  is  in 
the  dark  an'  can  hardly  see  his  way  clear.  He  is 
a  man  with  a  long  business  head  on  'im,  an'  he  cer- 

205 


Paul     Rondel 

talnly  knows  what  he  wants  in  the  w^oman  line. 
He's  powerfully  well  thought  of  in  bankin'  circles, 
an',  as  5^ou  know,  his  folks  are  among  the  best  in 
the  South." 

Ethel,  frowning  slightly,  was  avoiding  her  uncle's 
curious  gaze.  "I  shall  not  marry  any  man,"  she 
said,  quite  firmly,  "until  I  know  that  I  really  love 
him." 

"Love  a  dog's  hind  foot!"  Hoag  sneered. 
"Looky'  here,  Eth',  take  it  straight  from  me. 
That  is  a  delusion  an'  a  snare.  Many  an'  many  a 
good-hearted  gal  has  spoiled  her  whole  life  over  just 
that  highfalutin  notion.  They've  tied  the'rselves 
to  incompetent  nincompoops  with  low  brows  an' 
hair  plastered  down  over  their  eyes — chaps  who 
couldn't  make  a  decent  livin' — and  let  men  pass  b^; 
that  was  becomin'  financial  powers  in  the  land.  Ed 
Peterson  is  of  the  right  stripe.  He  ain't  no  fool. 
He  knows  you've  got  property  in  your  own  name 
an'  that  I've  set  somethin'  aside  for  you,  an'  he's 
jest  got  sense  enough  to  know  that  it  is  as  easy  to 
love  a  woman  with  money  as  without." 

"How  does  he  know?"  Ethel's  lips  were  drawn 
tight;  there  was  a  steady  light  in  her  eyes  as  she 
stood  looking  toward  the  mountain.  "How  does 
he  know  that  you  intend,  or  even  ever  thought  of — " 

"Oh,  you  see,  he  has  all  my  papers  down  thar," 
Hoag  explained.  ' '  He  keeps  'em  for  me  in  the  bank 
vault.  He  knows  all  about  my  business,  and 
naturally  he'd  be  on  to  a  thing  like  that.  I  hain't 
never  intimated  that  I'd  coerce  you  in  any  way, 
but  he  knows  I  look  favorably  on  the  outcome.  In 
fact,  I've  told  'im  a  time  or  two  that,  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned,  he  had  a  clean  right-o'-way.     He's 

206 


Paul     R  II  n  d  e  1 

sure  I  am  on  his  side,  but  he  don't  seem  at  all 
satisfied  about  you.  He's  a  jealous  cuss,  an'  as  much 
as  I  like  him,  I  have  to  laugh  at  'im  sometimes." 

"Jealous!"  Ethel  exclaimed,  with  a  lofty  frown 
of  vague  displeasure. 

' '  Yes ;  he  gits  that  way  once  in  a  while  on  mighty 
slight  provocation,"  Hoag  rambled  on.  "I  was 
tellin'  'im  t'other  day,  when  I  was  down  thar,  about 
Paul  Rundel  comin'  back,  an'  what  a  solid  chap  he'd 
turned  out  to  be  with  all  his  bookish  ideas  an'  odd 
religious  notions — givin'  hisse'f  up  to  the  law%  an' 
the  like.  Ed  didn't  seem  much  interested  till  I 
told  'im  that  the  women  roiind  about  generally  ad- 
mired Paul,  an'  loved  to  hear  'im  talk — like  your 
mother  does,  for  instance — an'  that  most  of  'em  say 
he  has  fine  eyes  an'  is  good-lookin'.  Right  then  Ed 
up  an'  wanted  to  know  whar  Paul  was  livin'" — 
Hoag  tittered — "whar  he  slept  an'  ate.  An'  when 
I  told  'im  he  stayed  here  at  the  house  with  us,  he 
had  the  oddest  look  about  the  eyes  you  ever  saw. 
I  teased  'im  a  little — I  couldn't  help  it.  I  was  in 
a  good-humor,  for  he  had  just  told  me  about  a 
Northern  feUer  that  wanted  to  buy  some  o'  my  wild 
mountain-land  at  a  good  figure.  But  I  let  up  on  'im 
after  awhile,  for  he  really  was  down  in  the  mouth. 
'Do  you  know,'  said  he,  'that  I'd  tackle  any  man 
on  earth  in  a  race  for  a  w^oman  quicker  than  I  would 
a  religious  crank  or  a  spindle-legged  preacher  of 
any  denomination  whatever.'" 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  me  over  that 
way,"  Ethel  returned,  coldly.  "You'll  make  me 
dislike  him.  He  and  I  are  good  friends  now,  but 
no  girl  likes  to  have  men  speak  of  her  as  if  she  were 
a  piece  of  property  on  the  market." 

207 


Paul     Run  del 

"Oh,  Ed  Peterson  is  all  right,"  Hoag  declared, 
his  eyes  on  Jack,  who  was  climbing  a  tree  near  the 
fence.  "That  child  will  fall  and  hurt  hisse'f  one 
o'  these  days.  Oh,  Jack!  Come  down  from  there — 
that's  a  good  boy;   come  down,  daddy  wants  you." 

Looking  at  Ethel  suddenly,  he  saw  that  she  was 
smiling. 

"What  in  thunder  is  funny  about  that?"  he  in- 
quired. 

Ethel  laughed  softly.  "I  was  just  thinking  of 
your  sneer  at  the  idea  of  any  one's  loving  another. 
You  perhaps  never  loved  any  one  else  in  your  life, 
but  your  whole  soul  is  wrapped  up  in  Jack." 

"I  reckon  you  are  right,"  Hoag  confessed,  half 
sheepishly,  as  he  started  down  the  steps  toward  his 
son.  "Sometimes  I  wonder  what's  got  into  me. 
He  has  sech  a  strange,  kittenish  way  o'  gittin'  round 
a  fellow.  I  believe,  if  I  was  to  come  home  some 
night  an'  find  him  sick  or  hurt  I'd  go  stark  crazy. 
He  ain't  Hke  no  other  child  I  ever  dealt  with." 

"He'll  be  more  and  more  of  a  mystery  to  you  the 
older  he  gets,"  Ethel  answered.  "He  has  a  strong 
imagination  and  great  talent  for  drawing.  Pm 
teaching  him.  He  loves  to  have  me  read  to  him, 
and  he  makes  up  stories  out  of  his  own  head  that 
really  are  wonderful." 

"I  always  thought  he'd  make  a  smart  man,  a 
teacher,  or  a  lawyer,  or  something  like  that,"  Hoag 
returned,  proudly,  and  he  hurried  away,  calling  loud- 
ly to  his  son  to  get  down. 


CIL\PTER  VII 

IT  is  held  by  many  philosophers  that  in  order  to 
appreciate  happiness  one  must  first  experience 
its  direct  antithesis,  and  it  may  have  been  Paul 
Rundel's  early  misfortunes  that  gave  to  his  present 
existence  so  much  untrammeled  delight.  For  one 
thing,  he  was  again — and  with  that  new  soul  of  his 
— amid  the  rural  scenes  and  folk  he  loved  so  pas- 
sionately. 

His  heart  was  full  of  actual  joy  as  he  rode  down  the 
mountain-side  one  Saturday  afternoon,  for  the  next 
day  would  be  a  day  of  rest,  and  he  had  worked  hard  all 
the  week.  There  was  a  particular  book  he  intended 
to  read,  certain  fancies  of  his  own  which  he  wanted 
to  note  down  in  manuscript,  and  hoped  to  talk  over 
with  Ethel. 

He  was  a  nature- worshiper,  and  to-day  Nature 
had  fairly  wrapped  her  robe  of  enchantment  about 
him.  The  sk}^  had  never  seemed  so  blue;  space  had 
never  held  so  many  hints  of  the  Infinite.  Scarcely 
a  flower  on  the  roadside  escaped  his  eye.  The 
gray  and  brown  soil  itself  had  color  that  appealed 
to  his  senses,  and  the  valley  stretching  away  under 
the  bluish  veil  of  distance  seemed  some  vague  dream- 
spot  ever  receding  from  his  grasp.  The  day  was  a 
perfect  one.  Since  early  morning  a  gentle  breeze 
had  been  steadily  blowing  and  the  air  was  crisp 
and  bracing. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  he  reached  home.     He 
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Paul    Rundel 

was  just  entering  the  front  gate  when  he  saw  Ethel 
walking  back  and  forth  on  the  lawn.  Something 
in  her  hanging  head  and  agitated  step  told  him  that 
her  mind  was  not  at  ease.  At  first  he  thought  she 
might  wish  to  avoid  him,  but,  hearing  the  clicking 
of  the  gate-latch,  she  turned  and  advanced  across 
the  grass  to  him.  Then  he  saw  that  she  held  a 
folded  letter  in  her  hand  and  there  was  a  perturbed 
look  on  her  face. 

"Not  bad  news,  I  hope?"  he  ventured. 
"I  don't  know  exactly."  Her  voice  quivered, 
and  she  looked  at  him  with  a  shadow  of  dumb  worry 
in  her  eyes.  "This  letter  is  from  my  aunt,  Jennie's 
mother.  She  proposes  that  mother  and  I  come 
down  at  once.  She — she — "  Ethel's  voice  shook 
with  rising  emotion.  "She  doesn't  say  there  is 
really  any  new  danger.  In  fact,  at  the  last  report 
the  doctors  said  Jennie  was  doing  as  well  as  could 
be  expected;  but  somehow — you  see,  the  fact  that 
my  aunt  wants  us  to  come  looks  as  if — " 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  won't  lose  hope,"  Paul  tried  to 
say,  consolingly.  "At  such  a  distance,  and  not 
being  with  your  cousin,  it  is  natural  for  you  to 
exaggerate  the — " 

"No;  listen,"  Ethel  now  fairly  sobbed.  "I've  re- 
flected a  good  deal  over  our  recent  talk  about  thought- 
transference,  and  I  am  sure  there  is  much  in  it. 
Jennie  and  I  used  to  think  of  the  same  things  at 
the  same  time,  and  I  am  sure — I  really  feel — that 
something  is  going  wrong — that  she  is  worse.  This 
letter  was  written  last  night  and  mailed  this  morn- 
ing. I  was  not  greatly  worried  till  about  three 
o'clock  to-day,  but  since  then  I  have  been  more 
depressed  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life.     Somehow  I 

2IO 


Paul     R  u  II  d  e  1 

can't  possibly  conquer  it.  Paul,  Pm  afraid  Jennie 
is  going  to  die — she  may  be — be  dying  now,  actually 
dying,  and  if  she  should,  if  she  should — "  Ethel 
dropped  her  eyes,  her  breast  rose  tumultuously,  and 
she  looked  away  from  him. 

There  was  nothing  Paul  could  do  or  say.  He 
simply  stood  still  and  mute,  a  storm  of  pain  and 
sympathy  raging  within  him. 

Ethel  seemed  to  understand  and  appreciate  his 
silence,  for  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  more 
calmly : 

"Of  course,  it  may  be  only  my  imagination — my 
overwrought  fears.  I'm  going  to  try  to  feel  more 
hopeful.  We  leave  on  the  eight  o'clock  train. 
Mother's  pacldng  our  things  now.  It  is  good  of 
you  to  be  so  sympathetic;    I  knew  you  would  be." 

She  turned  away.  With  a  halting  step  she  went 
up  the  veranda  steps  and  ascended  the  stairs  to 
her  mother's  room.  Paul  was  seated  on  the  lawn  in 
the  dusk  smoking  a  cigar,  when  Mrs.  Tilton  came 
out  to  him. 

"I  saw  you  talkin'  to  Ethel  just  now,"  she  began. 
"I  reckon  she  spoke  to  you  about  her  cousin?" 

He  nodded  and  regarded  the  old  wrinkled  face 
steadily  as  Mrs.  Tilton  continued,  in  a  tone  of 
resignation : 

"Harriet  ain't  told  Ethel  the  worst  of  it.  A  tele- 
gram come  about  an  hour  by  sun,  but  she  didn't 
let  Ethel  see  it.  It  said  come  on  the  fust  train — 
the  doctors  has  plumb  give  up.  Harriet  is  afraid 
Ethel  couldn't  stand  the  trip  on  top  of  news  like 
that,  an'  she  won't  let  her  know.  It's  goin'  to  be 
awful  on  the  pore  child.  I'm  actually  afraid  she 
won't  be  able  to  bear  it.     In  all  my  bom  days  I've 

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Paul     Rundel 

never  seen  such  love  as  them  two  girls  had  for  each 
other." 

Paul's  heart  sank  in  dismay.  "Do  you  think, 
Mrs.  Tilton,"  he  said,  "that  I  could  be  of  any  ser- 
vice? To-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  am  not  busy, 
you  know.     Could  I  help  by  going  down  with  them  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  would,"  the  old  woman 
answered.     "Jim    is    goin'    along.     He    don't    care 
nothin'  about  Jennie,  but  he'll  take  that  excuse  to 
get  down  there  to  see  his  friends.     Harriet  will  bring 
Ethel  back  here  right  after  the  buryin'.     She  as 
good  as  told  me  so;    she  thinks  a  quiet  place  like 
this  will  be  better  than  down  thar  among  so  many 
sad  reminders.     I  want  to  tell  you  now,  Paul,  an' 
I  don't  intend  to  flatter  you  neither;   but  when  Jim 
was  talkin'  so  big  on  the  porch  t'other  night,  an' 
pokin'  fun  at  the  idea  of  a  future  life,  an'  you  sat 
down  on  'im  so  flat,  an'  said  all  them  purty  things 
so  full  o'  hope  to  old  folks  like  me,  I  jest  set  thar  in 
the  dark  an'  shed  tears  o'  joy.     I  could  'a'  tuck  you 
in  my  arms  an'  'a'  hugged  you.     He  is  a-hirin'  you, 
an'  would  naturally  like  for  you  to  agree  with  him; 
but  you  fired  your  convictions  at  him  the  same  as 
you  would  'a'  done  at  anybody  else.     I'm  sick  an' 
tired  o'   the  way  he's  always  talked — classin'  hu- 
manity with  cattle  an'  hogs  like  he  does.     I  believe 
thar's  a  life  after  this  un;  if  I  didn't  I'd  go  crazy. 
If   I    didn't    know,   actually    know,  that    my   poor 
daughter,  who  suffered  all  them  years  as  that  man's 
wife,  was  happy  now,  I'd  be  a  fiend  incarnate,  an' 
go  rantin'  over  the  world  like  a  she-devil  let  loose. 
I  say  I  don't  want  to  flatter  you,  but  you've  been 
like  a  ray  o'  sunshine  in  this  house  ever  since  you 
got  here.     If  I  had  been  an'  infidel  all  my  life  the 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

sight  o'  your  face  and  the  sound  o'  your  voice  would 
turn  me  flat  over." 

Mrs.  Tilton  was  crying.  She  wiped  her  eyes  on 
her  apron  and  moved  away  in  the  twilight.  Paul 
looked- up  at  the  window  of  Ethel's  room,  through 
which  a  light  was  shining.  Then  he  bowed  his  head, 
locked  his  hands  in  front  of  him.  He  remained  so 
for  several  minutes,  then  he  said,  fervently: 

"O  God,  my  Lord  and  Master,  my  Creator,  my 
All,  be  merciful.  I  pray  Thee,  oh,  be  merciful — be 
merciful!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TWO  days  after  this  Hoag  came  back  from 
Atlanta,  reaching  home  just  at  noon. 

"I  didn't  go  to  the  funeral  myself,"  he  care- 
lessly remarked  at  the  dinner-table.  "I  had  some 
fellers  to  see  on  business,  an'  I  ain't  much  of  a  hand 
at  such  parades  of  flowers  an'  black  stuff,  nohow. 
Harriet  is  standin'  it  all  right,  but  Eth'  is  in  a 
piirty  bad  fix.  They've  had  a  doctor  with  'er  ever 
since  Jennie  died.  Eth*  had  never  seen  anybody 
die  before,  an'  it  seems  that  Jennie  knowed  enough 
to  recognize  'er,  an'  begged  'er  to  stick  by  'er  side 
to  the  very  end.  Eth'  has  been  nearly  crazy  ever 
since.  She  was  too  upset  to  go  to  the  buryin',  al- 
though plenty  o'  carriages  was  on  hand,  an*  she 
could  have  rid  in  comfort.  They  offered  me  a  seat 
at  their  expense,  but,  as  I  say,  I  had  other  fish 
to  fry." 

"I  knew  it  would  go  hard  with  Ethel,"  Mrs. 
Tilton  sighed.  "It  is  a  pity  they  let  'er  see  it. 
Such  things  are  hard  enough  even  on  old,  experi- 
enced folks.  When  are  they  comin'  up,  or  did  they 
say?" 

"To-morrow.  That  ain't  no  place  for  'em  down 
thar  in  all  that  whiz,  hustle,  an'  chatter,  with  a 
nigger  fetchin'  in  a  card  or  a  bunch  o'  flowers  every 
minute.  The  fellers  that  run  the  flower-stores  cer- 
tainly are  in  clover." 

Mrs.  Mayfield  and  Ethel  came  in  on  the  night- 

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Paul    R  u  n  d  e 1 

train  which  reached  Grayson  at  ten  o'clock,  and, 
having  retired,  Paul  saw  neither  of  them  till  the  next 
day.  He  had  risen  for  his  early  morning  walk,  and 
gone  down  to  the  front  lawn,  where  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  Mrs.  Mayfield  nervously  walking  back 
and  forth,  her  troubled  glance  on  the  ground.  He 
had  never  seen  her  look  so  grave,  so  despondent. 
Her  hair  was  drawn  more  tightly  across  her  brow, 
and  there  was  no  trace  of  color  in  her  pinched  and 
troubled  face.  Seeing  him,  she  bowed  and  made  a 
pathetic  little  gesture  of  welcome.  He  hesitated 
for  a  moment  as  to  whether  he  might  intrude  upon 
her,  but  some  appealing  quality  of  friendliness  in 
her  sad  glance  reassured  him,  and,  hat  in  hand,  he 
crossed  the  grass  to  her. 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  your  bad  news,"  he 
said.  "I  was  sorry,  too,  that  there  seemed  nothing 
I  could  do  to  help." 

"Thank  you;  you  are  very  kind,"  the  lady  said, 
her  thin  lips  quivering  sensitively.  ' '  I  have  thought 
of  you,  Paul,  several  times  since  the  blow  came. 
After  our  recent  talks  I  am  sure  you  could  have 
given  us  more  consolation  than  almost  any  one  else. 
At  a  time  like  this  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to 
lean  on  except  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  God." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  responded,  simply. 

"I  am  not  worrying  about  Jennie  now,"  Mrs. 
Mayfield  went  on,  gravely,  sweeping  his  face  with 
almost  yearning  eyes.  "At  my  age  one  becomes 
accustomed  to  face  death  calmly,  but,  Paul,  I  am 
actually  alarmed  about  the  effect  on  Ethel." 

"I  know,  and  I  am  sorry,"  Paul  said;  "very,  very 
sorry." 

"She  has  hardly  touched  any  sort  of  food  since 

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Paul     R  u  11  d  e  1 

Jennie  died,"  Mrs.  Mayfield  asserted,  in  a  tremulous 
tone;  "She  is  wasting  away.  She  can't  sleep  even 
under  opiates.  She  cries  constantly,  and  declares 
she  can't  get  her  mind  from  it  for  a  moment.  We 
ought  not  to  have  allowed  her  to  see  the  end,  but 
we  could  not  avoid  it.  Jennie  was  conscious  almost 
to  the  last  minute,  though  she  did  not  realize  she 
was  dying.  They  thought  it  best  not  to  tell  her, 
and  she  begged  Ethel  and  her  parents  and  me  and 
the  young  man  she  was  to  marry — begged  us  not  to 
leave  her.  She  seemed  quite  afraid.  Then  suddenly 
she  had  a  terrible  convulsion.  She  was  clinging  to 
my  daughter's  hand  when  she  died.  Ethel  fainted, 
and  had  to  be  taken  home  in  a  carriage.  She — she 
— Paul,  she  has  lost  all  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God, 
in  an  after-life,  in  everything.  She  is  simply  des- 
perate and  defiant.  She  can't  be  made  to  see  any 
sort  of  justice  in  it.  She  is  bitter,  very  bitter,  and 
hard  and  resentful.  Two  kind-hearted  ministers 
down  there  tried  to  talk  to  her,  but  she  almost 
laughed  in  their  faces.  Some  sweet  old  ladies — 
intimate  friends  of  ours — tried  to  pacify  her,  too,  but 
could  do  nothing.  I  wish  you  had  been  there. 
You  have  comforted  me  more  than  any  one  else 
ever  did.  Your  faith  seems  such  a  living,  active 
thing,  and  even  while  down  there  under  all  that 
sadness  I  found  myself  somehow  feeling  that  your 
thoughts — your  prayers  were  with  us." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  nodded,  his  blood  mounting  to  his 
face, "that  was  all  I  could  do.  Prayer  is  a  wonder- 
ful force,  but  unfortunately  it  seems  without  great 
or  immediate  effect  unless  it  arises  out  of  faith 
itself,  and  perfect  faith  is  very  rare." 

"I  understand,"  the  lady  sighed.     "I  hear  Ethel 

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Paul     II  u  n  d  e  1 

coming  down.  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  her.  I 
am  sure  you  can  do  her  good,  and  something  must 
be  done.  No  medicine  can  help  her;  her  trouble 
is  of  the  mind.  :  It  is  natural  for  persons  to  lose 
faith  under  a  shock  like  this,  and  in  time  get  over 
it;  but — but,  Paul,  I've  known  people  to  die  of 
grief,  and  that  is  really  what  I  am  afraid  of." 

Ethel,  as  she  descended  the  veranda  steps,  saw 
them.  She  wavered  for  a  moment,  as  if  undecided 
which  way  to  go,  and  then,  as  if  reluctantly,  she 
came  on  to  them.  Paul  noted  the  drawn  whiteness 
of  her  face  and  the  dark  rings  about  her  despairing 
eyes.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to  vibrate  from  a 
tense  state  of  nervousness.  Her  lips  were  fixed  in 
a  piteous  grimace  as  she  gave  Paul  her  hand. 

"Mother's  told  you  about  it,  I  am  sure,"  were 
her  first  words. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  s^'mpathetically,  "it  is  very 
sad." 

She  took  a  deep,  tremulous  breath,  and  her  lips 
were  drawn  tight  as  from  inner  pain.  "Paul,"  she 
said,  bitterly," I  didn't  know  till  now  that  even 
an  omnipotent  God  could  invent  a  thing  as  horrible 
as  all  that  was.  If — if  it  would  amount  to  any- 
thing I  would  curse  him — actually  curse  him." 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  w^th  Paul,"  Mrs.  May- 
field  said,  suddenly  catching  her  breath  as  if  in  pain. 
"I  have  something  to  do  up-stairs.  Listen  to  him, 
my  child.  He  has  comforted  me,  and  he  can  comfort 
you.  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  become  hard 
like  this.  Oh,  you  mustn't — you  mustn't,  darhng! 
You'll  break  my  heart." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do — I  don't  know 
what  to  do!"     Ethel  shook  with  dry  sobs,  and  there 
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Paul     Rundel 

was,  a  fixed  stare  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  "I  can't 
think  of  Jennie  being  gone — being  put  away  like 
that,  when  she  had  so  much  to  live  for,  and  when 
the  happiness  of  so  many  depended  on  her  recovery." 

Without  a  word,  and  with  an  appealing  and  sig- 
nificant backward  glance  at  Paul,  Mrs.  Mayfield 
moved  away. 

"Would  you  like  to  walk  down  to  the  spring?" 
Paul  proposed,  gently.  "The  air  is  so  fresh  and 
invigorating,  and  breakfast  won't  be  ready  for 
some  time  yet." 

She  Hstlessly  compHed,  walking  along  at  his  side 
like  a  drooping  human  flower  in  movement.  He 
heard  her  sighing  constantly.  He  did  not  speak 
again  till  they  were  seated  at  the  spring,  then  he  said : 

"Your  mother  overrates  my  power  of  giving  con- 
solation; there  is  nothing  helpful  that  any  mortal 
can  do  at  such  a  time.  I  cannot  give  you  my  faith. 
It  came  to  me  only  after  years  and  years  of  suffering, 
sordid  misery,  and  dense  spiritual  blindness.  But 
I  want  to  try,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'd  give  my  life 
to — to  save  you  pain,  to  turn  you  from  your  present 
despair.  Will  you  listen  to  me  if  I'll  tell  you  some 
of  the  things  that  I  passed  through?  You  can't  see 
it  as  I  do,  Ethel,  but  I  am  absolutely  positive  that 
your  cousin  is  now  a  thousand  times  happier  than 
she  was  —  happier  than  you  or  I,  or  any  one  on 
earth." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  will  say,"  Ethel  wailed, 
softly.  ' '  I  believed  such  things  once,  as  you  know. 
But  I  haven't  been  frank  with  you,  Paul.  Seeing 
your  beautiful  faith  which  brought  you  back  here 
in  such  a  wonderful  way,  I  could  not  bear  to  let  you 
know  the  truth ;  but  I  have  been  in  doubt  for  a  long 

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Paul     Rundel 

time,  and  now  I  have  nothing  to  hold  to — abso- 
lutely nothing.  You  might  argue  a  thousand  years 
and  you  could  not — kind  and  gentle  though  you  are 
— convince  me  that  a  just  and  merciful  God  would 
allow  my  poor  cousin  to  suffer  as  she  suffered,  and 
cause  me  to  feci  as  I  feel  only  through  my  love  for 
her.  If  there  is  a  good  God,  He  is  powerless  to 
avert  such  as  that,  and  a  creator  who  is  not  om- 
nipotent is  no  God  at  all.  We  are  a  lot  of  helpless 
material  creatures  staggering  through  darkness, 
dragging  bleeding  hearts  after  us,  and  yearning  for 
what  can  never  be  ours.  That's  the  awful,  repul- 
sive truth,  Paul.     It's  unpleasant,  but  it's  the  truth." 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  passed  through  after  I  left 
here,  if  you  will  let  me,"  Paul  began,  a  look  of  pained 
sensitiveness  clutching  his  mobile  features.  "It  is 
hard  to  have  you — of  all  persons — know  to  what 
depths  of  degradation  I  sank ;  but  I  feel — something 
seems  to  tell  me — that  my  story  may  help  you. 
Will  you  hear  me?" 

"Perhaps  you  ought  not  to  tell  me  anything  that 
is  unpleasant,"  Ethel  said,  listlessly. 

Paul  lowered  his  head  and  looked  at  the  ground. 
"I  am  not  sure,  Ethel,  that  it  is  not  my  duty  to  go 
from  man  to  man,  house  to  house,  and  tell  it  word 
for  word,  thought  for  thought,  deed  for  deed.  The 
world,  as  never  before  in  its  history,  is  groping  for 
spiritual  light,  and  my  life — my  soul-experiences — 
would  shed  it  upon  any  thinking  person.  No  one 
could  pass  through  what  I  have  passed  through  and 
doubt  the  existence  of  God  and  His  inexpressible 
goodness.  It  is  painful  to  tell  you,  for,  above  all, 
I  want  your  good  opinion,  and  yet  I  must.  Will 
you  hsten,  Ethel?" 

219 


Paul     Rundel 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered;  "but,  Paul,  if  I  am 
absent-minded  don't  blame  me.  Pve  not  thought 
of  a  single  thing  since  Jennie  died  but  the  way  she 
looked  then,  and  in  her  coffin  afterward.  I  don't 
think  I  can  ever  get  those  things  out  of  my  mind. 
They  are  simply  driving  me  insane." 

"Nothing  but  an  absolutely  different  point  of 
view  will  help  you,"  Paul  said,  gravely,  his  glance 
now  resting  tenderly  on  her  grief-stricken  face. 
"When  my  father  died  I,  too,  was  desperate.  When 
I  ran  away  from  here  that  terrible  night  I  was  as 
near  akin  to  a  wild  beast  as  ever  mortal  man  was. 
I  was  at  heart  a  murderer  gloating  like  a  blood- 
thirsty savage  over  another's  death.  I  won't  go 
into  detail  over  the  earliest  part  of  what  I  went 
through.  I  traveled  with  a  band  of  thieving  gipsies 
for  a  while.  Later  I  joined  a  circus,  and  there  gravi- 
tated to  the  same  sort  of  associates.  Some  of  the 
company  were  not  immoral;  but  I  was  a  murderer 
hiding  my  guilt,  and  among  only  the  lowest  of  the 
low  did  I  feel  at  home.     All  others  I  hated." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  you  ought  to — ought  to — " 
Ethel  faltered.  "How  can  it  do  any  good  to — " 
Her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  stared  at  him 
dumbly. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  because  it  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  do,"  he  said,  his 
tone  low  and  labored.  "I  want  you  to  know  me  as  I 
was  at  my  worst.  I  can't  feel  that  I  have  the  right  to 
sit  by  you  and  be  treated  as  a  friend  while  you  are 
unaware  of  what  I  have  been.  For  the  first  two 
years  I  was  as  low  as  the  lowest.  I  hated  life,  man, 
everything,  and  yet  there  was  always  something 
holding  me  back  from  absolute  crime.     Down  deep 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

within  me  there  was  always  a  voice,  always  a  pic- 
ture, always  a  sunlit  scene — " 

He  choked  up,  pretended  to  cough,  and  looked 
away  to  avoid  her  inquiring  eyes. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  she  prompted  him, 
with  her  first  show  of  interest. 

He   turned   and   looked  steadily  into   her   great, 
shadowy  eyes. 

"The  scene  was  the  roadside  down  there,  Ethel. 
The  picture  was  that  of  a  refined,  gentle  little  girl, 
her  eyes  full  of  sympathy.  The  voice  was  hers, 
telling  me  that  she  was  going  to  pray  for — for  me." 
"Oh,  oh,  why  do  you  say  that  now?"  Ethel 
cried.  "Now,  now,  after  I  have  told  you  that  I 
no  longer — " 

"Because  the  little  girl  ought  to  know,"  he  an- 
swered. ' '  She  should  be  told  of  the  clinging  effect 
her  promise — her  prayers — had  on  a  storm-tossed 
human  soul.  The  scene,  the  voice,  the  picture,  never 
left  the  wanderer.  They  grew  like  pure  flowers  in 
the  mire  of  his  deepest  sin.  In  many  cases  it  is  the 
memory  of  prayers  at  a  mother's  knee  in  childhood 
that  haunts  the  worldly  minded  in  after-life ;  but  my 
childhood  had  no  prayers,  and  that  little  girl  became 
my  guardian  angel." 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul,  don't,  don't!"  Ethel  cried,  and 
for  a  moment  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  grief. 
"But  I  must  go  on,"  Paul  answered.  "I  finally 
reached  Portland  and  settled  down.  I  was  tired  of 
roaming,  and  under  a  small  printer  I  began  to  learn 
type-setting.  I  made  rapid  progress.  I  had  access 
to  a  good  public  library,  and  I  passed  most  of  my 
evenings  in  study.  Later  I  began  reporting  on  a 
big  newspaper,  and  from  that  I  gradually  drifted 

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Paul     Rundel 

Into  the  writing  of  editorials.  I  don't  take  any 
credit  for  the  success  I  met,  for  the  articles  I  wrote 
were  readable  only  because  they  were  without  heart 
or  soul,  and  appealed  only  to  individuals  like  my- 
self. I  ridiculed  everything,  tore  down  everything. 
A  thing  only  had  to  be  praised  by  others  for  me  to 
hurl  my  vitriol  upon  it.  The  arrant  hypocrisy  of 
the  church-members,  the  mental  weakness  of  the 
preachers,  and  the  gullibility  of  the  public  were 
my  choice  themes.  Birds  of  my  own  particular 
feather  flocked  about  me  and  congratulated  me. 
I  became  vain  of  my  powers.  I  was  sure  that  I  was 
a  great  intellectual  force  in  the  world.  My  salary 
was  raised,  and  I  found  myself  in  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances. I  belonged  to  a  small  society  of  ad- 
vanced thinkers,  as  we  styled  ourselves.  We  held 
meetings  once  a  week  and  prepared  and  read  essays. 
The  great  materialistic  scientists  and  writers  were 
our  guides  and  gods.  We  pitied  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  for  its  inability  to  reach  our  height.  That 
went  on  for  several  years,  then  an  odd  thing  hap- 
pened." 

"What  was  that?"  Ethel  was  now  almost 
eagerly  leaning  forward,  her  pale  lips  parted. 

The  color  in  Paul's  cheeks  had  deepened.  "I 
must  tell  that,  too,"  he  said.  "And  I  shall  not 
shirk  the  humiliation  of  it.  There  was  a  young 
poet  in  Boston  whose  parents  lived  in  Portland. 
His  books  had  been  widely  circulated,  and  when  he 
came  out  on  a  visit  the  papers  had  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  him.  I  don't  think  I  ever  sank  lower 
than  I  did  then."  Paul's  voice  faltered.  "I  was 
jealous.  I  read  his  books  out  of  curiosity,  and  found 
them  wholly  spiritual,  full  of  dreams,  ideality,  and 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

mysticism.  Then  I  sat  up  all  of  one  night  and  wrote 
the  most  caustic  and  virulent  attack  on  his  work  that 
I  had  ever  written.  It  was  published  at  once,  and 
created  a  local  sensation.  My  friends  gave  me  a  din- 
ner in  honor  of  it,  and  we  drank  a  good  deal  of  beer 
and  filled  the  air  with  smoke.  Selections  from 
the  poet's  books  were  read  and  laughed  at.  That 
seemed  all  right;  but  an  unexpected  thing  hap- 
pened. The  next  day  the  young  man  called  at 
the  office  and  sent  in  his  card,  asking  particularly 
for  me.  It  made  me  furious;  my  associates  on  the 
paper  thought  he  had  come  to  demand  personal 
satisfaction,  and  so  did  I.  I  kept  him  waiting  in  the 
reception-room  for  some  time,  and  then  I  went  in  to 
him,  fully  expecting  trouble.  So  you  can  imagine 
my  surprise  to  have  him  rise  and  extend  his  hand 
in  a  timid  and  yet  cordial  manner.  I  had  never 
seen  him  before,  and  I  w^as  struck  by  the  wonderful, 
almost  suffering  delicacy  of  his  face  and  a  certain 
expression  in  his  big,  dreamy  eyes  that  I  had  never 
seen  before.  He  seemed  greatly  embarrassed,  so 
much  so  that  at  first  he  seemed  unable  to  talk. 
Presently  he  managed  to  tell  me,  in  the  frankest, 
most  gentle  manner,  that  he  had  come  to  see  me 
because,  after  reading  my  article,  he  was  afraid  he 
or  his  work  had  offended  me  personally  in  some  way. 
I  was  completely  taken  aback.  I  simph'  couldn't 
make  him  out.  I  was  tempted  to  speak  roughly, 
but  couldn't.  We  sat  down,  and  he  started  to  ex- 
plain more  fully  why  he  had  come.  He  said  it  was 
his  aim  in  life  to  live  in  harmony  with  God's  law, 
and  that,  as  he  saw  it,  the  feeling  between  him  and 
me  was  spiritual  discord  which  ought  not  to  exist. 
He  said  he  was  sure,  when  I  understood  him  fully, 

223 


Paul     Rundel 

that  I  could  have  no  personal  animus  against  him 
for  conscientiously  writing  the  poems  I  had  attacked. 
He  said  it  was  the  highest  law  of  life  for  all  men 
to  love  one  another,  and  until  they  did  there  would 
be  human  discord.  I  can't  tell  you  half  he  said. 
I  know,  somehow,  that  for  the  first  time  in  my 
experience  I  found  myself  facing  a  human  being 
who  was  more  spirit  than  matter,  and  who  possessed 
a  power  against  which  I  had  no  weapon.  He 
seemed  to  feel  my  embarrassment,  and  rose  to  go. 
At  the  door  he  gave  me  his  hand  again  and  pressed 
mine  warmly.  'I  am  sure,'  he  said,  'that  nothing 
but  good  can  result  from  this  visit.  Something 
within  me  always  tells  me  when  I  ought  to  do  a 
thing  like  this.  It  is  always  hard  to  do;  but  if  I 
refuse  to  obey  I  invariably  suffer  for  it.'" 

"How  very  strange!"  Ethel  exclaimed.  "And 
what  came  of  it?" 

"Much,  much,"  Paul  answered.  "When  he  had 
gone  I  remained  for  some  time  in  the  room  with 
the  door  closed.  I  was  hot  from  head  to  foot  with 
shame.  I  felt  worse  than  if  I  had  been  thrashed  in 
public.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  I  was  sure 
something  had  to  be  done.  I  returned  to  the  office, 
and  the  reporters  and  printers  gathered  about  me, 
full  of  jokes  and  eager  for  information.  I  could  say 
nothing.  A  mechanical  jest  rose  to  my  lips,  but  I 
didn't  utter  it.  I  could  no  longer  make  sport  of 
him  behind  his  back.  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went 
for  a  walk.  I  felt  sure  that  I  owed  him  a  public 
apology,  and  I  knew  that  I  would  not  be  able  to 
make  it,  and  that  fairly  confounded  me.  I  admired 
him  more  than  any  man  I  had  ever  met.  During 
that  walk  a  maddening  mental  picture  rose  before 

224 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e I 

me."  Here  the  speaker's  voice  quivered.  "I  fancied, 
Ethel — I  fancied  that  I  saw  you  as  I  last  saw  you. 
Some  one  was  presenting  that  young  man  to  you. 
I  saw  you  both  walking  off  together  across  the 
meadows  in  the  sunshine  among  the  flowers.  He 
was  gathering  them  for  you.  You  were  receiving 
them,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  and  he  were 
mated  as  man  and  woman  never  had  been  mated 
before." 

"Oh,  Paul,  don't!"  Ethel  protested.  "You  must 
not  think  of  me  that  way;   but  go  on — go  on!" 

"Day  after  day,  week  after  week,"  Paul  continued, 
"I  fought  the  inclination  to  write  that  apology. 
I'd  start  it,  only  to  throw  it  aside  as  something  above 
and  beyond  my  nature.  I  began  to  loath  myself. 
I  had  sufficient  cause.  I  was  a  murderer  living 
under  a  false  name,  continually  lying  about  my  past, 
haunted  by  remorse,  and  gradually  losing  my  rea- 
son. Then  came  the  crisis.  I  call  it  my  'black 
day.'  You  will  despise  me  when  I  confess  it,  but  I 
decided  to — kill  myself." 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul!"  Ethel  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.     "How  could  you — how  cotdd  you?" 

"I  was  a  blind  man,  goaded  to  despair.  I  was 
swimming  with  my  last  feeble  stroke  in  a  torrent 
of  sin.  It  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  joy  of  the 
rest  of  the  world  only  added  to  my  loneliness. 
All  my  acquaintances  had  gone  to  relatives  and 
friends,  and  I  was  alone  in  my  desolate  room.  I 
had  never  faced  myself  so  plainly  as  I  did  that 
night.  I  did  not  believe  there  was  any  future  life, 
and  I  told  myself  that  I  was  tired  of  the  struggle, 
and  wanted  to  go  to  sleep  never  to  wake  again. 
I  thought  that  would  solve  it,  you  see.     I  wrote  a 

225 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

note  to  old  Silas  Tye,  feeling  somehow  that  I  wanted 
him  to  know  what  had  happened  to  me.  I  got 
ready.  Forgive  me,  but  I  want  you  to  hear  it  all. 
The  door  and  windows  were  tightly  closed,  and  I 
turned  on  the  gas  and  lay  down  on  the  bed.  I 
folded  my  hands  on  my  breast.  I  was  sorry  for 
myself.  Then,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  notice 
the  odor  of  the  gas,  I  seemed  to  see  old  Uncle  Si 
on  his  knees  praying  for  me,  and  I  asked  myself 
what  was  he  praying  for,  to  whom  or  what  was  he 
praying?  My  next  thought  was  of  you  and  your 
sweet,  girlish  faith,  and  then  I  recalled  the  poet  and 
his  beautiful  ideas  of  life.  All  at  once,  as  if  in  a 
flash  of  light,  came  the  thought  that  you  three  might 
be  right  and  I  wrong;  that  while  I  could  kill  my 
body  I  might  never  be  able  to  kill  my  soul.  'God 
help  me!'  I  cried,  and  why  I  did  not  know,  for  I  had 
never  prayed  before.  I  sprang  up  and  turned  out 
the  gas  and  opened  the  windows  and  breathed  the 
fresh  air  deep  into  my  lungs.  Just  then  the  church- 
bells  of  the  city  rang  out  in  the  announcement  of 
the  day  on  which  Christ  was  bom.  I  was  tingling 
all  over  with  a  strange,  new  hope.  What  if  I 
should,  after  all,  actually  be  immortal? 

"I  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  asked  myself,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  'Am  I  flesh,  blood,  and 
bones,  or  am  I  wholly  spirit?'  Was  it  a  physical 
possibility  for  my  brain-cells — tiny  fragments  of 
matter — to  evoke  the  spiritual  tempest  through 
which  I  was  passing?  Was  there  a  God  and  was 
He  good?     If  not,  why  was  the  universe? 

"I  had  brought  home  a  new  book — the  Life  of 
Tolstoi — to  review,  and  I  began  to  read  it  with  the 
first  touch  of  sympathy  I  had  ever  given  such  a 

226 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

work.  It  clutched  me  and  held  me  like  a  vise. 
At  one  time  Tolstoi — like  myself — had  been  tempted 
to  kill  himself  because  he  had  no  faith,  and  life  was 
nothing  without  it.  Like  myself,  he  had  been  in- 
fluenced by  materialistic  thinkers  and  worldly- 
minded  associates.  He  had  wealth,  a  noble's  title, 
and  great  fame,  and  yet  he  had  thrown  them  all 
over  that  he  might  become  as  a  little  child. 
Among  the  great  men  of  the  earth  —  his  mental 
peers — he  could  not  find  the  peace  of  soul  that 
he  found  reflected  in  the  faces  of  the  poorest  peas- 
ants on  his  estate.  He  wanted  to  be  like  them, 
because  he  felt  they  were  more  like  God  than  he. 
For  him  the  riddle  was  solved.  It  struck  me  that 
his  life  was  a  wonderful  revelation  of  spiritual 
truth,  if  it  was  anything  aside  from  senility.  To 
satisfy  myself  on  this  point  I  spent  the  next  day 
reading  his  books,  becoming  more  and  more  con- 
vinced of  his  rational  sincerity  and  the  tmity  of  his 
life  from  beginning  to  end.  Tolstoi's  admiration 
for  Rousseau  led  me  to  Rousseau's  life  and  Con- 
fessions. From  him  I  went  to  Plato,  Epictetus,  and 
Marcus  Aurelius,  and  all  the  great  poets.  I  neglect- 
ed my  duties  on  the  paper,  and  fairly  buried  myself 
in  books  such  as  I'd  never  read  before.  My  desire 
to  satisfy  myself  that  my  soul  was  immortal  became 
a  veritable  passion.  I  read  everything  that  could 
possibly  throw  a  light  on  the  subject.  The  first 
thing  that  I  became  convinced  of  was  my  stupen- 
dous ignorance.  For  instance,  I  had  never  dreamt 
that  one  could  have  any  faith  which  was  not  foundec 
on  the  religious  creeds  of  which  I  had  heard  all  my 
life;  but  I  soon  saw  that  it  was  possible  to  acquire 
a  belief  like  that  of  Emerson,   Whitman,  Words- 

227 


Paul     Rundel 

worth,  and  Goethe,  which  soared  above  all  so-called 
revelation  and  reached  out  into  the  transcendental. 
I  read  the  works  of  many  philosophers,  spurning 
almost  angrily  those  who  leaned  to  the  material  side 
of  life  and  reverently  devouring  those  who,  like 
Kant  and  Hegel,  were  idealistic.  Among  the  mod- 
ern ones  William  James  seemed  inspired.  Then 
Bergson  held  me  with  his  idea  that  the  simple  in- 
tuition of  the  trusting  masses  was  a  better  guide 
to  hidden  truth  than  the  intellectuality  of  all  the 
scholars." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  read  so  much,"  Ethel 
said,  when  Paul  paused  and  sat  tenderly  regarding 
her  grief-stricken  face. 

"I  was  forced  to,"  he  smiled.  "I  was  in  a 
corner  fighting  for  life  against  awful  odds.  I  was 
sick  and  disgusted  with  existence.  In  my  new  atmos- 
phere I  began  to  breathe  for  the  first  time.  I  was 
sensing  the  eternal  meaning  of  things.  I  began  to 
see  why  I  had  been  made  to  suffer,  and  I  was  glad. 
The  habits  of  my  associates,  their  cramped  and 
aimless  lives,  now  seemed  horribly  sordid.  It  sounded 
strange  to  hear  them  speak  so  seriously  and  gravely 
of  trivial  affairs  when  a  vast  new  world  was  fairly 
throbbing  around  me.  I  ventured  to  speak  with  a 
tentative  sort  of  respect  of  some  of  the  books  I  had 
read,  and  they  laughed  at  me.  I  was  forced  into  cow- 
ardly craftiness.  I  hid  my  wonderful  secret  and 
continued  to  go  among  them.  But  that  couldn't  go 
on.  One  cannot  serve  both  the  spirit  and  the  flesh 
and  be  true  to  either,  so  I  gave  up  my  associates. 
I  apologized  to  the  poet,  wrote  a  strong  review 
of  a  new  book  of  his,  and  we  became  good 
friends." 

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Paul     Run  del 

"Then,  then"— Ethel  laid  an  eager  hand  on  his 
arm — "then  you  decided  to — to  come  home?" 

Paiil  smiled  reminiscently,  his  glance  on  the  gray 
wisps  of  clouds  slowly  lifting  themselves  from  the 
mountain-side  up  into  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun. 

"I  simply  had  to  do  it,"  he  said.  "It  was  as 
inevitable  as  life  itself.  I  knew  it  was  right,  and 
that   settled   it." 

"So  you  came!"  Ethel  cried.     "You  came  back." 

"Yes,  and  when  I  reached  here  that  night  and 
learned  the  truth  I  saw  God's  hand  in  it  all.  Now, 
you  see  why  I  have  told  3^ou  this.  Can  }'ou  believe 
there  is  any  other  design  than  good — infinite  good — 
behind  sorrow,  trouble,  and  agony?  Your  grief  is 
great — it  seems  unbearable  now;  but  behind  it, 
above  it,  beyond  it  is  a  purpose  so  divinely  wise 
that  no  mortal  sense  can  grasp  it." 

Just  then  Cato  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door  ring- 
ing the  breakfast-bell.  Ethel  rose  apathetically, 
and  they  slowly  walked  toward  the  house  together. 
They  saw  her  mother  among  the  flowers  waiting 
for  them.  Paul  heard  his  companion  sigh  and, 
looking  at  her,  he  saw  that  she  had  lapsed  into 
despair  again. 

"I  can't  bear  it,"  he  heard  her  say.  "I  can't — 
I  can't.     It's  awful,  awful!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOAG  rode  into  the  village  the  next  morning, 
and  as  his  horse  bore  him  along  through  the 
balmy  air  he  ruminated  over  the  object  he  had  in 
view.  He  had  determined  to  see  Sid  Trawley  and 
have  a  straight  talk  with  him  about  certain  private 
matters.  He  no  longer  doubted  that  the  livery- 
man was  persistently  avoiding  him.  Sid  had  not 
answered  to  his  name  at  the  last  roll-call  of  the 
"klan,"  and  vague  rumors  were  afloat.  One  of  the 
younger  members  had  jocularly  remarked  that  Sid 
had  simply  "got  cold  feet,  an'  was  tryin'  to  shirk 
the  entire  thing."  At  any  rate,  Hoag  was  sure  that 
Trawley  was  not  deporting  himself  as  an  aide-de- 
camp should,  and  Hoag  was  determined  to  have  a 
distinct  understanding  about  it.  It  was  not  Hoag's 
way  to  beat  about  the  bush,  and  Trawley  knew  too 
much  regarding  matters  more  or  less  confidential 
to  be  allowed  to  act  as  he  was  acting  without  good 
and  sufficient  reasons.  As  his  horse  cantered  along 
the  street  near  the  livery-stable,  Hoag  was  quite 
sure  that  he  saw  Trawley  in  the  doorway  and  that 
he  had  purposely  withdrawn  from  view. 

"Huh,  that's  cheeky!"  Hoag  muttered,  as  he 
reined  in  at  the  stable,  dismounted,  and  threw  his 
bridle-rein  to  a  negro  attendant. 

"Which  way  did  Sid  go?"  he  asked  the  man, 
suddenly. 

230 


Paul     Run  del 

The  negro's  eyelashes  flickered  hesitatingly,  and 
he  avoided  the  white  man's  stare. 

"I  dunno,  boss,  I  hain't  seed  'im,"  the  man  said. 
"He  was  heer  dis  mawnin',  but  I  don't  know  whar 
he  is  -now." 

"You  are  a  liar,  you  black  imp!"  Hoag  growled. 
"I  saw  'im  right  here  a  minute  ago." 

The  negro  made  no  response;  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  doggedly,  and  his  bead-like  eyes  were  full 
of  cautious  concern  as  he  led  the  horse  to  a  stall. 

Hoag  stared  after  him,  a  sullen,  thwarted  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  "Don't  take  the  saddle  off," 
he  yelled.  "I'm  goin'  back  right  away."  And 
with  that  he  suddenly  turned  into  the  little  office 
on  the  right,  finding  Trawley  at  his  desk,  a  queer 
look,  half  of  fear,  half  of  sheepishness,  in  his  shifting 
eyes.  Hoag  was  now  positive  that  the  man  was  try- 
ing to  avoid  him,  and  a  fierce  demand  for  explanation 
was  on  his  tongue,  but  he  managed  to  restrain 
himself.  Indeed,  he  felt  that  this  was  a  case  that 
required  diplomatic  handling,  for  Trawley  had  a 
temper,  and  at  present  had  the  look  of  a  man  driven 
into  a  corner." 

"Hello,  Sid,"  Hoag  said.    "How  goes  it?" 

"Oh,  so  so,"  Trawley  answered,  awkwardly. 
"How's  things  out  your  way?" 

"Oh,  about  as  common."  Hoag  was  wondering 
over  Trawley's  sallow  complexion,  once  so  ruddy, 
and  the  nervousness  of  a  frame  which  surely  had 
lost  weight  and  poise.  The  two  did  not  shake  hands. 
Hoag  idly  tapped  the  green  cloth  of  the  desk,  beat- 
ing little  ridges  of  dust  into  view,  and  fixed  his  pur- 
poseful eyes  on  the  dingy,  small-paned  window 
which  was  hung  over  with  cobwebs. 

23  i 


Paul     Run  del 

"You  hain't  answered  at  roll-call  lately,"  he  sud- 
denly plunged. 

"I  couldn't  find  the  time."  Trawley  was  open- 
ing a  canvas-backed  ledger  with  thin,  quivering 
fingers.  "I've  been  powerful  busy.  Cap.  Lots  an' 
lots  o'  rigs  an'  hosses  goin'  out  an'  comin'  in — can't 
trust  my  shebang  with  these  coons.  They  don't 
feed  an'  water  my  stock — or  rub  'em  down  when  they 
come  in  tired.  They  git  things  all  balled  up — send 
out  hosses  on  long  trips  that  hain't  had  no  rest; 
one  o'  my  best  mules  dropped  dead  t'other  day  an' — " 
"I  understand  all  that."  Hoag's  eyes  bore  down 
on  him  impatiently.  "But  you  didn't  use  to  be  so 
all-fired  anxious  about  this  dang  stable.  It's  a  new 
twist  altogether.  Say,  has  anything  gone  crooked 
with  you?" 

"What  makes  you  ax  that?"  Trawley 's  words 
crept  slowly  from  his  stiff  Hps,  and  his  glance  rose, 
only  to  fall  precipitately. 

"I  don't  know,"  Hoag  replied.  "Some  o'  the 
boys  said  they  didn't  know  but  what  you'd  took  to 
doctorin'  yorese'f — got  a  fool  notion  in  yore  head 
that  you  was  about  to  git  down  sick." 

"Well,  I  am  sick — if  you  want  to  know,"  Trawley 
suddenly  declared.  "I'm  not  a  sound  man,  by  a 
long  shot." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  Hoag  laughed.  "You've  been 
eatin'  too  much  or  smokin'  more'n  you  ought. 
Maybe  yore  liquor  ain't  o'  the  right  brand.  There's 
a  lot  o'  poison  in  the  truck  shoved  over  bar-counters 
these  days.  You  oughtn't  to  touch  any  but  straight 
moonshine  corn.  Some  o'  our  boys  make  the  best 
that  ever  slid  down  a  gullet." 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  o'  that  sort,"  Trawley  sighed,  de- 
232 


Paul     Rundel 

spondently.  "Dr.  Lynn  examined  me  an'  wasn't  a 
bit  satisfied.  He  said  my  stomach  had  clean  gone 
back  on  me.  Nothin*  I  eat  won't  stay  down.  I 
roll  an'  tumble  at  night  an'  shake  all  over  durin'  the 
day.     Doc  said  it  was  serious." 

"Oh,  now  I  understand."  Hoag  seemed  slightly 
relieved.  "But  you  hain't  a-goin'  to  let  that  scare 
the  socks  off  you.  Besides,  Lynn  may  be  mis- 
taken." 

Trawley 's  chin  dropped  despondently.  ' '  He  knows 
as  much  as  any  doctor,  I  reckon.  Looked  to  me  like 
he  considered  my  case  hopeless.  He  shook  his  head 
all  the  time  he  was  talkin'.  He — he  hinted  purty 
strong  that  I  ought  to  be  prepared,  that  I  might 
— might  have  to  go  any  day."  Trawley 's  scant 
blood  had  left  his  face  and  his  lip  hung  Hmply. 

Hoag  shrugged  his  shoulders  indifferently,  "So 
you've  let  that  scare  you  plumb  off  from  old  habits. 
You  set  here  an'  mope  instead  o'  bein'  up  an'  about 
with  the  rest  of  us.  We  all  got  to  die  some  time  or 
other." 

Trawley  glared  fiercely  out  from  his  labyrinth  of 
fears.  "You  wait  till  it  gits  yoti  down!"  he  blurted 
out.  "You  kin  talk,  standin'  thar  with  that  solid 
pouch  on  you — an'  a  meal  in  it  that  you  can  hold 
down.  Don't  talk  to  me;  I  know  when  I'm  in 
trouble!" 

"I  know  when  you  will  be,  shore  enough,  if  you 
don't  mark  my  words."  Hoag  was  now  employing 
his  favorite  browbeating  method,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  threateningly.  "You  have  been  shootin' 
off  your  mouth  to  outsiders.  You  are  like  a  scared 
old  hag  with  fits.  I  heard  that  hobgoblin  tale  3^ou 
told  about  seein'  the  ghost  o'  Pete  Watson.  The 
16  233 


Paul     Run  del 

tale'i?  goin'  the  rounds,  gittin'  bigger  an*  bigger,  like 
a  cake  o'  beeswax  that  everybody  adds  a  chunk  to, 
an'  thar  wasn't  a  thing  in  it  but  your  fool  jim- 
jams." 

"I  know  what  I  know!"  Trawley  said,  a  shadow 
of  superstition  in  his  eyes.  "I  was  in  my  right 
senses — I  was  seein'  as  plain  as  I  am  now.  The  fust 
time  he  appeared  I  was  wide  awake,  settin'  up  in  a 
chair  in  the  kitchen.  The  next  time  I  was  in  my 
corn-crib  a  little  after  dark.  Pete  put  his  hand  to 
his  neck;  I  heard  'im  groan  an'  gurgle.  He  comes 
to  my  bed  sometimes  when  Fm  asleepin'  an'  pulls 
the  covers  off  an'  then  darts  right  through  the  wall. 
The  last  time  he  told  me  that  me  nor  none  o'  the 
klan  would  ever  have  peace — that  black  folks  was 
the  same  as  white  whar  he  was  at,  an'  that  accordin' 
to  the  book  o'  judgment  to  kill  the  innocent  was 
the  unpardonable  sin  alluded  to  in  Scripture." 

"Poof,  Sid,  you  are  gone  clean  daffy!"  Hoag 
sneered,  though  a  serious  expression  had  captured 
his  features,  for  he  was  wondering  how  far  this 
indiscreet  babbler  could  be  trusted  to  recount  such 
imaginings. 

"He  got  you  in  it  all  right,"  Trawley  said,  vin- 
dictively. "I  ain't  the  only  one.  The  last  time 
he  come  to  me  I  was  drivin'  the  cow  home  from 
the  pasture  after  dark.  At  fust  I  thought  it  was  a 
calf  or  a  stray  hog;  but  he  come  on  till  he  was 
close  by  my  side,  limpin'  along  like  he  used  to  do, 
with  his  old  flipflap  feet.  He  talked  as  plain  as 
ever  he  did  in  this  life.  He  said  I  was  to  die  a  slow 
death  an'  a  terrible  one — that  my  folks  would  think 
I  was  dead  an'  put  me  in  the  ground,  but  that  I'd 
lie  thar  an'  wait  till  him  an'  some  more  come  an' 

234 


Paul     Rundel 

twisted  my  spent  out  an'  tuck  it  on  to   torment. 
Then  he  fetched  you  in." 

"Me?"  Hoag  sniffed.  "Well,  I'm  glad  he  hain't 
forgot  me,  I  hope  he  remembers  the  time  I  lam- 
basted 'im  for  breakin'  that  new  plow  o'  mine." 

"Yes;  he  said  yore  time  was  comin',  too;  he  said 
you  was  the  prime  mover  an'  power  in  the  organiza- 
tion— that  you  was  a  rank  coward  at  heart,  an'  that 
you  jest  loved  the  fun  o'  scarin'  niggers  because  you 
was  afraid  o'  brave  white  men.  I  dunno,  I'm  jest 
tellin'  you  what  he  told  me.  He  said  your  luck  was 
goin'  to  turn  flat  ag'in'  you — that  your  present  sup- 
port would  sluff  away,  an'  you'd  find  yourself  alone 
with  nothin'  'twixt  you  an'  the  Almighty  but  the 
niggers  you'd  sent  on  ahead,  an'  that  you'd  git  on 
your  knees  to  'em  an'  beg  'em  to  speak  a  kind  word 
for  .you,  but  that  they'd  turn  a  deef  ear.  He  may 
have  missed  it  in  yore  case,  but  was  right  about  me. 
Jim  Hoag,  I'm  a  dyin'  man,  an'  I'm  in  hell  already." 

Hoag  was  becoming  angry.  Had  he  dared  he 
would  have  spoken  more  sharply.  He  told  himself 
that  Trawley  had  lost  his  reason,  and  that  he  was 
a  very  unsafe  man  in  his  present  condition,  holding 
the  knowledge  he  held. 

"You'll  have  to  git  out  o'  this,"  he  said,  sternly. 
"You  need  a  change." 

"I  need  more'n  that,"  Trawley  groaned,  and  he 
beat  the  top  of  his  desk  with  a  limp,  splaying  hand. 
"I  need  medicine  that  ain't  in  no  bottle  or  doctor's 
saddle-bags.  I  know  what  I  need,  but  I  don't  know 
whar  to  git  it.  I  need  what  my  good  old  mammy 
had  when  she  died,  shoutin'  an'  talkin'  about  her 
folks  that  had  gone  on,  who  she  declared  was  right 
thar  over  the  bed  holdin'  out  their  hands  to  her." 

235 


Paul     Rundel 

"Take  it  from  me,  Sid,"  Hoag  said,  carelessly, 
"ail  that  stuff  is  pure  poppycock.  When  a  man's 
time  comes  the  jig  is  up  —  that's  all;  he's  done 
for;  he's  put  in  the  ground  an'  rots.  As  for  me, 
that's  all  I  want  or  expect." 

"I  know  you've  always  said  that,"  Trawley  an- 
swered, "an'  I  used  to  think  maybe  you  was  right, 
bein'  sech  a  big  man  in  your  way;  but  I  know  dif- 
ferent now.  Say,  Jim  Hoag,  what  do  you  make  o' 
Paul  Rundel?" 

"Make  o'  'im — what  do  you  mean?" 

*  *  I  want  to  know  what  could  'a'  fetched  'im  back 
here  to  give  up  to  the  halter  like  he  did  unless — un- 
less he  was  led  by  some'n  in  'im  bigger,  wider,  an' 
higher  than  jest  his  mortal  body?" 

Hoag  smiled  significantly,  and  idly  tapped  the 
leg  of  his  trousers  with  his  whip.  "Just  betwixt  us 
two,  Sid,  I  never  have  knowed  just  what  Paul's 
game  was.  I  saw  he  was  a  good  man  for  the  job 
I  had  open,  an'  I  tuck  'im  in.  I  never  have  bothered 
about  the  tale  he  told.  That  was  his  lookout.  He's 
got  a  clear  head  for  business.  He  understands  hu- 
man nature,  an'  he  was  sharp  enough,  I  reckon,  to 
know  that  nine  juries  out  o'  ten  would  be  lenient  in 
a  case  like  his'n.  He  was  homesick  for  these  old 
mountains,  an'  was  willin'  to  serve  a  year  or  two  an' 
be  done  with  it." 

"That  won't  do  at  all — not  at  all,"  Trawley  pro- 
tested, with  firmness.  "I've  never  seed  an  eye  like 
his'n  in  a  human  head.  He  heard  I  was  ailin',  an' 
come  in  here  last  week  friendly  like  to  talk  to  me. 
Well" — Trawley  averted  his  face  and  sat  linking  his 
fingers  like  wooden  prongs — ' '  I  just  don't  know  how 
to  tell  you  about  it,  Cap.     He  said — Paul  said  some 

236 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e  1 

o'  the  quarest,  most  comfortin'  things  that  ever  a 
sick  man  heard.  I  want  to  see  'im  ag'in — I  just 
must.  I've  been  to  preachers,  an'  to  old  Christian 
men  hke  Tye  over  thar,  an'  they  all  gave  me  the 
same  stale  song-and-dance ;  but  this  young  fellow, 
with  his  shinin'  face  an'  happy  way,  had  some'n 
fresh.  Why,  he  said  that  the  Lord  just  couldn't 
be  hard  on  any  repentant  soul  He'd  ever  created. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  Paul  fixed  it,  but  I  can't 
remember.  He  said  the  ugly  sights  I'd  seed  was 
just  in  me — just  in  my  own  mind — an'  that  as  soon 
as  I  seed  that  I  was  part  an'  parcel  of  God  Hisse'f 
aU  them  gloomy  shadows  would  pass  away  an'  I'd 
see  visions  o'  true  light.  He  cited  the  thief  on  the 
cross — you  remember  about  that  feller  ?  He  was  dyin' 
thar  by  the  Saviour,  you  know,  an'  the  Lord  said 
to  him,  'This  day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Para- 
dise.' As  Paul  fixed  it  up  nothin'  the  thief  had 
done  in  days  gone  by  was  to  be  helt  ag'in'  'im- — 
nothin'!  He  says  it  is  all  a  matter  of  wrong  thought 
or  right  thought.  He  told  a  purty  tale  that  was 
sorter  like  a  new-fashioned  parable.  He  said,  take 
two  brothers,  for  instance.  A  lawyer  comes  away 
across  the  ocean  from  the  old  country  an'  tells  'em, 
on  his  word  an'  honor,  that  a  kinsman  has  died  over 
thar  an'  left  'em  a  million  apiece,  but  that  they  will 
have  to  be  patient  an'  wait  a  year  before  the  money 
will  be  paid  into  the'r  hands.  Now,  Paul  said  one 
of  'em,  for  example,  would  believe  the  lawyer  an* 
spend  his  year  full  o'  happy  expectations,  but  t'other 
wouldn't  trust  the  lawyer's  statement,  an'  in  his 
doubt  an'  uncertainty  his  year  would  be  the  most 
miserable  he  ever  spent.  Both  come  in  at  the  end 
on  the  same  actual  level,  you  see.  Cap,   but  the 

237 


Paul     Rundel 

tmstin'  fellow  got  in  twelve  months  quicker — that's 
all.  ■  Paul  says  that  illustrates  what  is  called  havin' 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  within  you — it's  our'n  if 
we'll  just  believe  it's  our'n  an'  move  in  an'  take  pos- 
session." 

Hoag's  countenance  was  full  of  shadow.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  undecided  as  to  what  to  say. 
He  whipped  his  leg  steadily  and  cleared  his  throat. 
One  of  the  negro  attendants  leaned  in  at  the  door 
and  asked  Trawley  a  question,  and  the  liveryman 
replied  sharply: 

"Give  'im  any  pair  he  wants,  an'  don't  disturb 
me  ag'in  while  I'm  talkin'. ' '  He  uttered  a  low  groan 
as  the  negro  withdrew  and  looked  up  at  his 
frowning  companion.  "I  tell  you,  Jim  Hoag,  when 
a  man  gits  in  trouble  like  I  am  in,  a  puny  thing  like 
whether  he  rents  a  turnout,  or  a  hub  is  split,  or  a 
tire  off,  amounts  to  so  little  that  it  makes  'im  mad 
to  think  about  it." 

"Looky'  here,  Sid!"  Hoag's  beetling  brows  ran 
together,  and  his  tone  was  fierce  and  direct.  "I 
want  to  git  at  this  thing  right  now,  so  as  to  know 
what  to  depend  on.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  you  are 
under  oath  of  secrecy  to  the  Man.  Did  you  say 
anything  to  Paul  Rundel  to  lead  him  to  suspect 
that—" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  Trawley  groaned.  "I  kept  it  all 
back,  an'  thar's  right  whar  I  think  my  chief  trouble 
lies.  I've  taken  an  oath  that  binds  me  to  the  devil 
an'  his  imps.  Paul  says,  to  git  the  real  thing 
you've  got  to  go  at  it  with  a  clean  breast,  an'  I  can't 
be  that  way  with  you  fellows  tellin'  me  to  come  to 
your  secret  meetin's  an'  lay  in'  claim  to  me.  I 
hain't  give  you  all  away,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to,  but 

238 


Paul     Rundel 

I'm  in  a  bad  fix.  I  want  to  dean  up  an'  git  right, 
but  I  don't  know  how.  It  seems  wrong  to  break 
my  oath,  an'  wuss  to  keep  it." 

"I  can  say  to  you  right  here,  Sid" — Hoag  moved 
toward  the  door,  a  dark,  red  flush  on  his  face — "if 
you  do  betray  our  body  you'll  regret  it,  an'  you 
know  well  enough  why." 

So  speaking,  and  without  another  glance  at  the 
man  he  was  leaving,  Hoag  strode  away.  Aflame 
with  fury,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  home- 
ward. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  following  night  was  dark  and  sultry.  A 
slight,  brief  rain  had  pattered  upon  the  hot 
and  dusty  earth,  leaving  a  warm,  thick  moisture  in 
the  air.  The  clouds,  shifting,  dissolving,  and  mass- 
ing overhead,  alternately  revealed  and  hid  the 
stars.  The  moon's  white  disk  hung  behind  a  filmy 
veil  above  the  mountain-top.  Hoag  had  retired  to 
his  room  in  anything  but  a  pleasant  mood.  He  could 
count  on  browbeating  the  average  man  under  him, 
the  man  who  was  afraid  of  the  good  or  ill  opinion 
of  his  fellows;  but  the  man  who  was  afraid  of  the 
Infinite,  as  in  Trawley's  case,  was  different. 

Hoag  had  removed  his  coat  and  his  shirt  was  open 
in  front.  He  sat  in  a  chair  at  a  window  overlooking 
his  tannery.  He  was  smoking,  as  usual.  In  fact, 
the  habit  had  grown  upon  him  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  was  afraid  of  what  he  called  "a  tobacco- 
heart."  There  were  occasional  warnings,  in  certain 
muscular  flutterings  and  lapses  into  drowsiness  that 
had  not  belonged  to  his  more  buoyant  period. 
He  told  himself  that  he  was  taking  on  flesh  too 
rapidly.  He  was  sure  he  was  eating  more  than  he 
should ;  that  his  toddies  were  acting  as  an  unnatural 
stimulant  to  an  appetite  which  had  always  been  too 
vigorous. 

On  a  table  behind  him  a  lamp  was  dimly  burning, 
and  the  bed  in  its  billowy  warmth  looked  uninviting. 
The  old  clock  in  the  hall  below  had  struck  eleven 

240 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

when  he  rose  to  disrobe.  Suddenly  he  heard  Rover, 
the  watch-dog,  bark  loudly  and  scamper  down  the 
lawn  toward  the  tannery.  Then  there  was  silence, 
broken  by  a  subdued  muttering  under  the  dark 
sheds.  Hoag  was  sure  that  the  dog  had  been 
silenced  by  some  one,  and  the  circumstance  was 
suspicious,  to  say  the  least,  and  must  be  looked  into. 
So,  taking  his  revolver  from  the  table,  and  in  order 
that  he  might  not  wake  Jack  or  Mrs.  Tilton  in  the 
next  room,  he  opened  his  door  softly,  then  crept 
noiselessly  out  at  the  side-entrance  and  went  across 
the  damp  lawn  down  the  slope,  avoiding  this  or 
that  obstacle  in  his  progress — a  beehive,  a  lawn- 
mower,  or  a  dismantled  cider-press  left  at  the  mercy 
of  the  weather.  He  was  soon  under  the  sheds  grop- 
ing his  way,  most  cautiously  now,  for  it  was  quite 
dark,  between  the  open  vats,  and  stumbling  over 
heaps  of  used  and  unused  tan-bark,  his  eyes  and  ears 
alert.  He  asked  himself,  in  growing  wonder,  what 
had  become  of  Rover,  for  surely  the  dog  was  some- 
where near.  At  this  juncture  he  heard  a  dull, 
thumping  sound  in  the  warehouse  a  hundred  yards 
to  the  left,  and  cocking  his  revolver  he  strode 
quickly  in  that  direction.  Reaching  the  ware- 
house, and  turning  the  corner,  he  saw  at  the  door 
of  the  building  a  horse  and  open  road- wagon,  at  the 
side  of  which  Rover  sat  on  his  haunches  idly  beat- 
ing the  ground  with  his  tail.  Wholly  nonplussed, 
Hoag  stepped  noiselessly  on  to  the  long  platform, 
and  peered  in  at  the  sliding  door.  At  the  farthest 
end  of  the  room,  in  the  dim  light  of  a  lantern,  he  saw 
a  man  half  pushing,  half  rolling  a  heavy  bale  of 
leather  toward  the  door.  Crouched  down,  as  the 
intruder  was  over  his  work,  Hoag  could  not  see  his 

241 


Paul      Rundel 

face,  but  presently  it  appeared  quite  clearly  in  the 
light.  It  was  Henry.  It  was  his  son.  He  was  a 
thief  caught  in  the  act.  Volcanic  fury  swept  over 
Hoag.  The  would-be  thief  was  of  his  own  blood, 
of  his  own  loins.  Revolver  in  hand,  and  indignant- 
ly quivering  in  every  inch  of  his  fat  body,  Hoag 
glided  from  the  dark  into  the  Hght. 

"What  the  hell  does  this  mean?"  he  demanded, 
in  a  loud  and  yet  guttural  tone. 

The  young  man  at  the  bale  of  leather,  without 
hat  or  coat,  his  brow  red  and  streaming  with  per- 
spiration, started  and,  looking  up,  faced  his  father. 
For  an  instant  his  glance  wavered,  but  as  Hoag 
thundered  out  a  repetition  of  his  question,  Henry 
drew  himself  up  defiantly  and  glared  straight  at 
him. 

"You  see  well  enough,"  he  answered,  doggedly. 

"So  you  are  a  thief — a  low,  sneaking,  prowling 
night-robber?"  Hoag  gasped,  taken  aback  by  his 
son's  unexpected  attitude.     "You — ^you!" 

"Call  it  what  you  like!"  Henry  hurled  at  him. 
"I  don't  care.  You  are  rollin'  in  money,  makin'  it 
hand  over  fist — goin'  to  your  grave  rich,  and  I 
haven't  any  way  of  living.  Other  fellows'  daddies 
help  them  along,  but  you  never  give  me  a  cent. 
I  used  to  ask  you,  and  you'd  curse  me  and  threaten 
to  kick  me  out.  I'm  your  son,  and  you  are  stinkin' 
rich.  You  can't  bluff  me.  I'm  reckless.  I  don't 
care  a  tinker's  damn  what  I  do.  I  need  money — 
that's  all— I  need  it." 

Hoag  stood  puffing.  He  was  conscious  of  a  flutter- 
ing about  his  heart,  and  he  had  the  sudden  fear 
that  an  outburst  might  mean  his  undoing  on  the 
spot,  but  he  was  too  angry  to  control  himself. 

242 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"So  you  are  a  thief!"  he  panted.  "You  eat  at 
my  table,  sleep  under  my  roof,  an'  come  here  with 
a  wagon  to  steal  my  stuff.  Do  you  know  what  I'm 
goin'  to  do  with  you?" 

"Not  knowing,  I  can't  say,"  Henr>'  answered, 
with  colloquial  quotation.  "I've  known  you  to 
get  weak-kneed,  as  you  did  the  day  Jeff  Warren 
called  you  to  taw  at  the  Court  House.  Jeff  saw 
through  it  and  told  how  you  ate  the  crow  he  shoved 
at  you  on  the  point  of  his  gun." 

This  angry  taunt  was  the  worst  missile  the  des- 
perate young  man  could  have  thrown.  It  drove 
splotches  of  pallor  into  the  crimson  of  his  father's 
face. 

"You  mean  you  think  I'm  a  coward?"  Hoag  cried. 
"You — you  dare — " 

"I  don't  mean  nothing  about  it;  I  know  it," 
Henry  retorted,  still  with  the  furious  smile  on  his 
lips,  a  reckless  flare  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  I'll  show  you  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  to  yoti, 
anyway,"  Hoag  said,  fiercely.  "I'm  goin'  to  give 
you  the  best  lickin'  you  ever  had  in  all  your  bom 
days." 

"You  say  you  are!"  Henry  laughed,  almost  with 
actual  spontaneity. 

"Yes,  I  am,  an'  right  here  an'  now." 

"'  Right  here  an'  now,'  "  Henry  repeated,  grimly. 
"Well,  that  is  a  good  joke;  'right  here  an'  now' — 
poof!  You'd  better  set  in.  It  will  be  breakfast- 
time  before  long." 

"You  wait  a  minute,"  Hoag  growled,  as  he  took 
up  the  lantern  and  placed  it  on  a  bale  of  cotton; 
then  he  turned  back  to  the  door,  closed  the  shut- 
ter   and    fastened    the    metal    latch    with    fingers 

243 


Paul     Rundel 

that  fumbled  and  evoked  an  audible  clatter  in  the 
silent  ■  room.  Then,  with  his  revolver  in  his  hip- 
pocket,  he  stalked  back  to  his  son,  who  sat  on  the 
bale  of  leather  sullenly  picking  his  teeth  with  a 
splinter.  Their  eyes  met  like  those  of  two  in- 
furiated beasts  driven  into  contact  by  the  goads  of 
spectators.  Beyond  the  lantern's  flare  the  darkness 
hung  like  a  curtain.  Hoag  picked  up  a  piece  of 
hard-twisted  hemp  rope  about  a  yard  in  length,  and 
with  furious  jerks  proceeded  to  tie  a  knot  in  one 
end  of  it. 

"You  not  only  try  to  rob  me,  but  you  dare  to 
insult  me!"  he  cried,  frothy  saliva  trickling  from  the 
corners  of  his  big,  weak  mouth.  "I'm  goin'  to  give 
you  a  lickin'  that  you  won't  forget  till  you  die." 

Henry  stood  up.  A  smile  dawned  on  his  face 
and  died;  he  locked  his  hands  behind  him;  his  lips 
were  as  firm  as  if  cut  in  granite;  his  eyeHds 'drew 
close  together,  and  the  balls  gleamed  with  the  fire 
of  invincible  purpose. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said.  "You  are  an  older 
man  than  I  am,  an'  you  are  my  daddy,  but  if  you 
lay  the  weight  of  your  hand  on  me  I'll  kill  you  as 
sure  as  you've  got  a  live  hair  on  your  head." 

"You  mean  to  threaten  me — you  damned  mid- 
night prowler!"  And  Hoag,  brandishing  his  rope, 
sprang  at  his  son  like  a  tiger  on  its  prey.  But 
Henry  quickly  and  deftly  caught  the  descending 
rops,  jerked  it  from  the  fat  fingers,  and  threw  it 
against  the  wall.  Then,  while  Hoag  stood  for  an 
instant  bewildered,  Henry  clutched  him  round  his 
big,  bare  neck  and  began  to  push  him  backward 
over  the  bale  of  leather.  From  side  to  side  the  two 
swung,   gTunting,   panting,   swearing.     A  mist  was 

244 


Paul     Rundel 

before  Hoag's  eyes;  ten  prongs  of  steel  were  pierc- 
ing and  separating  the  bones  and  muscles  of  his  neck. 
He  was  gasping  for  breath  when,  by  an  extra  effort, 
he  tore  his  son's  hands  away.  For  a  second  they 
stood  warily  shifting  from  side  to  side,  and  then  they 
locked  in  the  embrace  of  madmen,  and  the  struggle 
for  supremacy  was  renewed.  Over  the  rough  floor, 
here  and  there  among  boxes,  bundles,  and  bales, 
they  slid  and  pounded.  Suddenly  Henry  became 
conscious  that  his  father  was  trying  to  get  his  hand 
into  his  hip-pocket. 

"Oh,  that's  your  game,  eh?"  he  said,  between  his 
teeth.  "Two  can  work  at  it."  And  the  younger 
suddenly  slid  his  hand  over  the  back  of  the  older 
man  and  grasped  the  hilt  of  the  revolver.  Then  he 
ducked  downward  suddenly  and  stood  aside,  the 
weapon  in  his  hand. 

"Stand  back!"  he  ordered,  calmly,  and  Hoag, 
with  eyes  of  despair  on  the  revolver,  fell  away. 
Visions  of  death  flashed  and  flared  before  him — 
visions  of  the  monster  Trawley  was  fearing.  He 
held  up  his  hands ;  their  shadows  on  the  wall  quiv- 
ered like  the  moving  branches  of  a  tree  in  a 
storm. 

"Don't,  for  God's  sake,  don't!"  he  pleaded. 
"I'm— I'm  your  father." 

Henry  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  an  expres- 
sion of  sheer  horror  crept  over  his  face.  Suddenly 
he  threw  the  revolver  against  the  wall  and  bowed 
his  head  to  a  cotton  bale. 

"My  God,  oh,  my  God!"  he  cried,  his  hands 
pressed  into  the  sockets  of  his  eyes,  his  breast 
heaving. 

Slowly  Hoag  lowered  his  uplifted  hands.    Silence 
245 


Paul     Rundel 

ensued — silence  broken  only  by  the  audible  panting 
of  the  two  men.     Presently  Hoag  spoke. 

"You  started  to  kill  me,"  he  gasped.  "Why 
didn't  you  do  it?     You  had  the  chance." 

"Oh,  my  God — oh,  my  God!"  Henry  exclaimed, 
in  muffled  tones.  "Yes,  yes,  I  came  near  it.  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  about.  You  got  me  in  a 
corner.  You  started  at  me.  You  made  me  mad. 
But  I  am  not  a  murderer — bad  as  I  am,  I  am  not 
that.  I  saw  you  trying  to  pull  the  gun  and  forgot 
what  I  was  doing." 

"Huh,  you  say  you  did?"  Hoag  seemed  unable 
to  formulate  anything  else.     "You  say  you  did?" 

Suddenly  stepping  aside,  Henry  picked  up  the 
rope  his  father  had  held  a  moment  before.  Hoag 
stared  helplessly  as  he  came  toward  him  with  it 
extended  in  his  hands. 

"Take  it!"  Henry  gulped. 

"What  for?"  Hoag  asked,  wonderingly. 

"I  want  you  to  whip  me,"  Henry  replied,  huskily. 
"I'll  stand  here  and  let  you  lay  it  on  till  you  are 
tired.  You'll  never  give  me  enough  to  satisfy  me. 
I  need  it  and  I  want  it.  You  have  every  right  to 
give  it  to  me,  and  I  want  it  done." 

Unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  Hoag  accept- 
ed the  rope,  allowing  it  to  hang  loosely  from  his 
inert  fingers.  There  was  another  silence.  Henry 
had  turned  his  back  and  bent  his  shoulders  over  the 
cotton  bale. 

Hoag  twisted  the  rope  awkwardly  in  his  hands  for 
a  moment,  then  threw  it  down. 

"What  did  you  need  money  for?"  he  suddenly  in- 
quired.    "Tell  me;   you  might  as  well." 

' '  I  borrowed  a  hundred  dollars  from  Sam  Pitman 
246 


P  a  u  1     R  u  n  d  e  1 

last  year,"  came  from  Henry's  averted  lips.  "He's 
in  hard  luck.  They  arc  about  to  sell  his  farm  for 
debt.  His  family  is  suffering.  He  told  me  that  my 
hundred  would  tide  him  over." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Hoag  muttered. 

"I  didn't  know  how  else  to  get  it,"  Henry  went 
on.  "I  tried  a  number  of  ways,  but  failed.  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I've  never  stole  before.  Somehow 
I  made  myself  believe  it  wouldn't  be  wrong  in  such 
a  case  to  take  from  my  own  father.  Of  course  I 
was  wrong,  but  I  tried  to  see  it  that  way.  I  knew 
where  I  could  raise  the  money  on  the  leather,  and — 
well,  that's  all.  I  want  you  to  whip  me.  Nothing 
else  will  satisfy  me.  After  that  I'll  go  away  for 
good  and  all." 

"Thar  ain't  no  use  to  talk  that  way,"  Hoag  said, 
falteringly.  "I  didn't  know  you  needed  money  as 
bad  as  that.  Pitman  is  in  a  hard  fix,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  It's  plumb  foolish  for  you  to — to 
talk  about  goin'  off  an'  all  that.  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  I'll  pay  that  debt  off  in  the  momin'.  I 
reckon  you  think  I'm  purty  hard  on  you.  Well,  I 
suppose  I  am.  I  was  fetched  up  hard,  an'  I've  got 
hard.  Now,  go  put  up  the  hoss  an'  wagon.  I  feel 
bad  about  this.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel 
bad." 

"Father,   I  can't—" 

"Now,  go  on  an'  do  as  I  tell  you.  I  know  when 
I  want  to  do  a  thing,  an'  I  want  to  pay  Pitman  that 
money,  an' — an'  I  want  you  to  stay  on  here  at  home. 
Now,  go  put  up  the  hoss  an'  wagon.  If  I'm  satis- 
fied you  ought  to  be,  an'  me'n  you  will  have  to  rub 
out  an'  begin  over  ag'in  in  some  sort  o'  fashion. 
You  was  mad  an'   I   was  mad.      You've  got  my 

247 


Paul     Rundel 

temper  an'  I  can't  blame  you.  Now,  go  on.  I'll 
lock  the  door." 

"Very  well,"  Henry  said,  and  he  picked  up  his 
'coat  and  hat  and  moved  away  into  the  darkness, 
leaving  his  father  with  the  lighted  lantern  in  his 
]hand. 

JHoag  stood  still  for  a  moment.  He  heard  his  son 
clucking  to  the  horse,  then  came  the  sound  of  the 
wagon-wheels  scraping  against  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form, and  the  grinding  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
stony  road,  as  it  was  driven  toward  the  stables. 
Hoag  extinguished  the  lantern  by  lowering  it  sud- 
denly, and,  going  out,  he  closed  the  sliding  door  and 
locked  it  with  fingers  which  quivered  as  with  palsy. 

He  sat  down  on  the  platform,  his  heavy  feet  and 
legs  hanging  limply,  and  stared  out  into  space. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ONE  evening  at  the  end  of  that  week  Paul  met 
Mrs.  Mayfield  walking  back  and  forth  on  the 
lawn.  Her  head  was  enveloped  in  a  light  shawl  and 
her  eyes  were  downcast.  Presently  she  turned  tow- 
ard him,  and  he  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"I  was  going  to  inquire  of  Mrs.  Tilton  how  your 
daughter  is,"  he  began.  "I  have  not  seen  her  since 
the  morning  I  walked  with  her  to  the  spring." 

The  lady  touched  her  thin  lips  with  her  handker- 
chief and  made  an  obvious  effort  to  control  her  voice. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  almost  with  a  gesture 
of  despair,  and  he  felt  the  deHcate  fingers  tremble. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  see  you,"  she  faltered. 
"The  poor  child  seldom  leaves  her  bed.  The  doc- 
tor says  nothing  but  time  will  do  her  any  good. 
She  scarcely  eats  anything,  and  has  grown  thin 
and  white,  and  oh,  so  nervous  1  Jennie's  death 
has  simply  terrified  her — shocked  her  through  and 
through.  She  cries  constantly.  I  wake  up  in  the 
night  and  hear  weeping  and  moaning.  The  doctor 
can't  deceive  me.  I  know  he  is  worried,  because  he 
comes  often  and  asks  so  many  questions.  He  ad- 
mits that  grief  like  Ethel's  sometimes  results  disas- 
trously, and  I  myself  have  never  seen  so  serious 
a  case  as  hers.  Paul,  she  has  lost  all  faith  in  God 
and  rehgion.  She  came  up-stairs,  after  you  talked 
to  her  that  day,  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  really  more 
hopeful  mood.  She  put  her  head  in  my  lap  and 
17  249 


Paul     Run  del 

cried  ior  the  first  time  in  a  natural  way,  but  she 
hardened  again  soon  afterward.  That  afternoon 
letters  came  from  Jennie's  father  and  mother  and 
the  young  man  Jennie  was  to  marry,  and  Ethel  went 
into  hysterics.  She  really  did  not  know  what  she 
was  saying  or  doing.  Oh,  it  was  pitiful!  She  says 
she  simply  can't  get  away  from  the  memory  of  the 
awful  details.  It  was  my  fault;  she  should  never 
have  been  there.  Jennie  wanted  her,  though,  and 
there  was  no  time  for  reflection.  We  were  all 
excited." 

' '  Something  must  be  done  to  take  your  daughter's 
mind  from  it,"  Paul  advised,  gravely.  "A  mental 
picture  hke  that  should  not  be  held.  It  is  decidedly 
dangerous." 

"That's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  Mrs.  Mayfield 
said.  "You  can  help  me  if  you  will.  My  brother 
says  you  are  going  to  drive  over  the  mountain  to- 
morrow on  business.  I  really  think  Ethel  would 
go  along  if  you  would  care  to  take  her." 

"I  should  be  delighted,"  he  answered.  "I'd  be  a 
poor  companion  at  such  a  time,  but  the  view  from 
the  mountain  at  this  time  of  the  year  is  wonder- 
ful, and  the  trip  might  divert  her  thoughts." 

"Then  I'll  have  her  ready,"  Mrs.  Mayfield  prom- 
ised. "And  oh,  Paul,  I  do  hope  you  will  impress 
some  of  your  beautiful  thoughts  upon  her.  Religion, 
faith  in  God's  goodness,  and  the  hope  of  immortaHty 
are  absolutely  the  only  sustaining  things  at  such 
a  time.  If  I  had  not  had  them  to  cHng  to  when 
my  poor  husband  died  I  think  I  should  have  lost 
my  reason.  I  doubted  at  first — I  could  see  no 
justice  in  his  sufferings  and  mine;  but  I  have  be- 
come reconciled.     People  are  more  material  in  their 

250 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

ideas  nowadays,  and  Ethel  has  come  across  some 
injurious  books  which  have  influenced  her.  She  is 
so  gentle  and  sweet — really,  it  is  her  pity  for  Jennie 
that  is  causing  it  all.  She  is  not  thinking  of  her- 
self. That  is  the  state  of  mind  of  a  mother  who 
has  lost  a  child;  she  feels,  somehow,  that  her  child 
has  been  wrongly  treated  and  she  resents  it." 

"I'll  do  my  best  to  cheer  her  up  to-morrow," 
Paul  said,  a  note  of  despondency  creeping  into  his 
voice,  "though  I  am  afraid  I  can't  do  much." 

"I  am  sure  you  can  do  far  more  than  any  one  else," 
Mrs.  Mayfield  said,  as  she  glanced  at  the  window 
of  her  daughter's  room  and  turned  to  go  in.  "I'll 
have  her  ready." 

After  breakfast  the  following  morning  Cato 
brought  the  horse  and  buggy  around  to  the  veranda, 
and  Paul  went  out  to  see  if  everything  was  in  readi- 
ness for  the  trip,  having  received  a  message  at 
breakfast  from  Mrs.  Mayfield  that  Ethel  was  quite 
willing  to  go.  Presently  he  heard  the  two  ladies  de- 
scending the  stairs,  and  a  moment  later  they  joined 
him  in  the  yard.  Paul  was  shocked  by  Ethel's 
appearance.  She  was  quite  pale  and  there  were 
despondent  shadows  under  her  eyes,  but,  withal, 
he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  beautiful;  it  was  as 
if  some  rare,  suppressed  radiance  were  issuing  from 
her  hair,  skin,  and  pain-filled  eyes,  the  long  lashes 
of  which  seemed  dipped  in  the  essence  of  tears. 

"I  know  you  will  thinlv  I'm  very  troublesome, 
Paul,"  she  smiled,  sadly,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand 
to  get  into  the  buggy.  "I've  been  so  despondent 
that  I  have  avoided  all  of  you.  It  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  bother  with  me  to-day." 

251 


Paul     Rundel 

"It  is  certainly  a  great  pleasure  to  me,"  he  an- 
swered," as  he  tucked  the  lap-robe  about  her  feet. 
"You  mustn't  try  to  talk  unless  you  care  to." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  think  of  only  one  sub- 
ject," she  sighed,  as  she  leaned  over  the  wheel  and 
kissed  her  mother.  ' '  I  seem  to  be  floating  on  a  sea 
of  unreaHty,  under  clouds  of  despair.  I  was  looking 
from  the  window  of  my  room  just  now  and  saw  the 
people  going  to  work  at  the  tannery,  and  in  the  fields 
with  their  pails  and  tools,  and  I  wanted  to  scream.  It 
seemed  so  queer  for  them  to  be  moving  about  as  if 
nothing  unusual  had  happened  when  " —  Her  voice 
failed  her.  With  a  sensitive  tightening  of  the  Hps 
Mrs.  Mayfield  signaled  Paul  to  drive  on,  and  he 
started  the  horse. 

They  had  gone  some  distance  along  the  stony 
road  which  wound  gradually  up  the  mountain-side 
before  either  of  them  spoke.  It  was  Ethel  who 
broke  the  silence. 

"There  is  no  time  in  the  world,  Paul,"  she  said, 
huskily,  "in  which  one  so  keenly  feels  and  appre- 
ciates the  kindness  of  friends  as  a  time  like  this.  I 
can  see  that  you  are  sorry  for  me,  and  I  want  you  to 
know  how  grateful  I  am,  but  I  simply  can't  express  it. 
My  very  heart  and  soul  seem  to  have  died  within  me." 

"You  mustn't  try,"  he  answered.  "You  must 
simply  realize  that  all  things  are  right.  Even  this 
great  sorrow,  sad  as  it  appears,  is  for  the  best,  if 
only  you  could  see  it  in  the  right  light." 

"I  remember  you  said  so  the  other  day.  And, 
Paul,  I  did  try  hard.  A  beautiful  faith  in  personal 
immortality,  like  yours,  really  does  keep  away  the 
horror  of  death,  and  I  tried,  with  all  my  mind  and 
body,  to  grasp  it.     I  prayed  and  prayed  for  your 

252 


Paul     Rundel 

faith,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  at  certain  moments,  that 
I  came  so  close  to  it  that  I  could  almost  sense  it  as 
a  wonderful  reality.  It  would  flash  before  me  like 
a  beautiful  dream,  and  then  vanish,  leaving  nothing 
but  that  awful  scene  in  its  place.  For  half  an  hour 
yesterday  I  was  almost  happy.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  Jennie  was  really  not  dead.  I  fancied  she  was 
there  with  me,  telling  me — not  in  words,  but  in  some 
subtle  way — not  to  grieve,  that  she  was  in  a  new 
life  full  of  joy  and  freedom." 

"That  is  the  thought  you  ought  to  endeavor 
to  hold,"  Paul  fervently  declared,  "because  it  is 
simple  truth.  In  fact,  you  deny  the  ultimate  aim 
of  life  in  looking  at  it  in  any  other  way." 

"You  will  say  it  was  a  small  thing,  perhaps," 
Ethel  went  on,  "which  threw  me  back  into  despair. 
It  was  this:  Shortly  after  our  talk  at  the  spring 
I  picked  up  a  newspaper,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw 
was  a  long  article  concerning  a  statement  made  by 
Edison,  to  the  effect  that  the  result  of  all  his  careful 
and  lifelong  investigations  was  the  conclusion  that 
the  immortality  of  the  soul  was  an  utter  impossibil- 
ity. Paul,  I  dropped  from  hope  to  despair  in  an 
instant.  I  tried  to  think  you  might  be  right  and  he 
wrong,  but  I  failed.  I  asked  myself  this  question: 
If  God  is  good  enough  to  grant  us  another  and  a 
better  life,  why  will  He  allow  one  of  the  greatest 
men  of  our  age  to  deny  it,  and  let  me — me,  suffering 
and  praying  for  light  as  I  am — come  across  his 
denial  in  grim,  black  letters  on  white  paper?" 

"That  raises  a  little  scientific  point."  Paul 
looked  at  her  wistful  face  and  half  smiled.  "You 
allowed  yourself  to  be  influenced,  almost  self -hypno- 
tized, by  one  single  mental  picture." 

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Paul     Rundel 

"How  so?"  Ethel  inquired. 

Paul  smiled  again.  "Why,  you  let  Mr.  Edison— 
with  all  due  respect  to  his  knowledge  of  merely 
material  things— you  let  him  loom  too  large  before 
your  sight.  One  may  hold  a  little  ugly  insect  so 
close  to  the  eye  that  it  will  shut  out  the  light  of 
bilHons  of  suns  and  stars.  When  it  is  a  question  of 
opinion  alone  it  would  be  better  to  go  to  specialists 
in  the  particular  field  we  are  investigating.^  Mr. 
Edison  is  a  specialist  in  material  things,  not  spiritual 
things.  We  would  not  go  to  a  coal-miner  who  had 
spent  his  life  underground  to  render  an  opinion  on 
the  effects  of  sunHght  on  flowers;  nor  to  a  boiler- 
maker  for  an  opinion  on  music  played  to  the  vanish- 
ing-point of  delicate  expression.  We  have  one  great 
historical  authority  on  spiritual  matters.  Christ 
told  us  that  there  is  a  Hfe  beyond  this,  and  he  died 
asserting  it.  There  was  another — Socrates — who 
realized  it  so  strongly  that  he  laughed  in  the  face 
of  death.  Ethel,  I  cannot  beHeve  that  God  would 
create  men  like  those,  allow  them  to  suffer  for  others 
as  they  did,  and  then  prove  them  to  be  liars  outright 
or  self -deceived  simpletons." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  came  this  morning!"  Ethel 
cried,  looking  up  at  him  gratefully.  "You  have 
given  me  so  much  hope.  Your  faith  is  wonderful, 
and  you  seem  to  inspire  me  with  it." 

"No,  we  really  must  not  go  to  our  material 
scientists  for  hope  in  such  things,"  Paul  resunied, 
"but  rather  to  our  great  imaginative  poets,  artists, 
and  idealistic  philosophers,  all  of  whom  knew  there 
could  be  no  continuity  of  progress  without  eternal 
life.  Evolution  of  matter  is  only  a  visible  symbol 
of  the  evolution  of  the  unseen.     I  can  fancy  Jesus 

254 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

meeting  one  of  our  great  self-satisfied  materialists 
and  hear  Him  say : 

Verily,  verily,  thou  hast  thy  reward;  sooner  shalt  thou  see 
through  a  mountain  of  adamant  than  look  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven. 

Ethel  laughed  softly.  "You  are  making  me 
ashamed  of  myself,  Paul.  I  am  going  to  try  harder 
than  ever  to  do  my  duty.  I  know  what  it  is,  but 
I  am  simpl}'  stunned.  My  uncle  and  aunt  write 
me  that  the  young  man  Jennie  was  to  have  married 
has  gone  to  drinking  again.  He  simply  could  not 
stand  his  great  grief.  That  is  another  thing  that 
seems  so  unfair  and  unreasonable.  For  Jennie's 
sake  he  gave  up  the  habit,  and  promised  her  and 
her  parents  never  to  drink  again.  Now  he  is  going 
to  ruin,  when  if  Jennie  had  lived — "  Ethel's  voice 
broke,  and  she  did  not  finish  what  she  had  started 
to  say. 

"But  can't  you  see  what  your  cousin  may  have 
escaped?"  Paul  reasoned.  "A  young  man  who  is 
weak  enough  to  allow  a  sorrow — even  a  sorrow  like 
that — to  throw  him  into  dissipation  would  not  be 
likely  to  make  a  worthy  husband.  After  marriage 
some  other  disappointment  might  have  upset  him, 
and  a  woman  married  to  such  a  man  would  have 
led  a  miserable  life." 

"Oh,  that's  true,"  Ethel  admitted,  "and  Jennie 
never  could  have  borne  it;  she  was  so  frail  and 
sensitive." 

"There's  surely  a  good  reason  for  all  that  hap- 
pens," Paul  said.  "But  we  can't  be  expected  to 
understand  what  is  withheld  from  us." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  while.  They  had 
255 


Paul     Rundel 

reached  the  highest  point  of  the  road,  and  the  lower 
mountains  and  hills  fell  away  on  all  sides  Hke  the 
green  billows  of  a  mighty  ocean.  Above  it  all  shone 
the  sun.  The  blue,  cloud-flecked  sky  arched  over  them 
Hke  a  vast  dome.  The  breeze  which  fanned  their 
faces  was  refreshing  and  laden  with  the  fragrance 
of  wild  flowers.  Paul  called  her  attention  to  the 
mill  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  to  which  they  were 
going,  and  started  the  horse  down  the  incHne. 

"I  am  to  have  a  visitor  Sunday,"  Ethel  remarked, 
her  glance  on  the  horse.  "My  friend,  Mr.  Peterson, 
is  coming  up  to  spend  the  day." 

"Oh!"  Paul  unconsciously  ejaculated,  and  then 
the  color  rose  to  his  face.  "I  have  not  met  him.  I 
saw  him  at  the  bank  one  day  when  I  went  to  Atlanta 
with  your  uncle,  but  we  were  not  introduced.  He 
was  very  busy  looking  over  Mr.  Hoag's  papers." 

"They  are  great  friends,"  Ethel  said,  somewhat 
awkwardly,  her  cheeks  sHghtly  tinted.  "I  don't 
feel  as  if  I  can  entertain  him  very  well  in  my  pres- 
ent state  of  mind,  but  I  knew  my  uncle  would  be 
offended  if  I  wrote  him  not  to  come." 

"It  will  be  good  for  you,  no  doubt,"  Paul  said, 
lamely,  and  for  no  obvious  reason  he  tightened  the 
reins  and  shook  them  over  the  animal's  back.  "He 
will  bring  you  news  from  the  city  and  it  may  di- 
vert your  thoughts." 

"Perhaps  so.  My  mother  thought  he  ought  to 
come;  he  has  been  most  kind  to  us.  He  is  one  of 
my  best  friends." 

"Your  uncle  tells  me  that  Mr.  Peterson  is  grow- 
ing rich,"  Paul  remarked.  "He  seems  to  have  a 
wise  head  for  business." 

"Yes,  he  is  ambitious  that  way,  and  socially,  too. 
256 


Paul     Rundel 

He  belongs  to  the  best  clubs  and  has  a  great  many 
friends." 

"Your  uncle  says  he  is  a  member  of  one  of  the  old 
aristocratic  families  and  has  many  influential  blood 
connections." 

"Yes,  I  think  so" — Ethel  suddenly  glanced  at 
her  companion's  face  and  noted  that  it  was  rigid, 
as  if  under  the  control  of  some  keen  emotion — "but 
such  things  do  not  really  count,"  she  added,  con- 
solingly; "they  don't  make  a  man  any  the  better." 

Paul  said  nothing,  and  the  horse  drew  them  along 
for  some  distance  in  silence.  Then  Ethel  took  up 
the  subject  where  it  had  dropped. 

"I  am  sure  you  will  like  Mr.  Peterson;  he  has 
traveled  a  great  deal.  He  has  an  interest  in  one 
of  the  Atlanta  papers,  and  I  have  heard  him 
speak  of  having  influenced  some  of  the  political 
editorials.  For  so  young  a  man  he  is  looking  far 
ahead  and  is  very,  very  shrewd.  My  uncle  declares 
that  he  is  a  born  politician,  and  that  sooner  or  later 
he  will  become  a  candidate  for  some  high  office,  such 
even  as  Senator  or  Governor." 

Suddenly  Paul  drew  the  horse  to  a  standstill. 
She  saw  him  glance  up  a  very  rugged  steep  over  an 
abrupt  cliff  on  the  right. 

"I  see  some  violets,"  he  said.  "I've  been  looking 
for  some  all  along.  If  you  will  hold  the  reins  I'll 
climb  up  and  get  them." 

She  gave  him  a  puzzled  stare  for  an  instant,  and 
her  Hps  tightened  significantly  as  she  answered: 
"I  really  would  like  to  have  them,  but  it  looks  steep 
and  dangerous  up  there;  you  might  slip  and  fall 
over  the  cliff." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  bitterly. 
257 


Paul     Rundel 

The  lines  of  pain  she  had  noticed  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth  still  remained. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  dangerous,"  he  declared.  "As  a 
boy  I  have  climbed  up  worse  places  than  that;  but 
I  was  barefooted  then  and  a  sort  of  wild  animal. 
You  remember  how  I  looked  and  acted  when  I  first 
met  you?  In  the  eyes  of  the  social  world  I  am  still 
not  much  better  off,  for  the  social  world — your  world 
— draws  a  sharp  line  at  birth  and  fortune,  and  they 
are  things  some  of  us  have  to  do  without." 

He  had  got  out  of  the  buggy  and  was  turning 
away.  She  had  a  startled  impulse  to  deny  what 
he  had  just  said,  but  suitable  words  could  not  be 
so  quickly  summoned.  In  no  little  chagrin  and 
fear  of  his  opinion  of  her,  she  sat  watching  him 
as  he  climbed  the  steep,  clinging  to  this  or  that 
projecting  stone  crevice  or  deep-rooted  shrub. 
How  strong,  handsome,  and  genuine  he  looked,  with 
his  fine,  fearless  head  bared  to  the  sun  and  breeze! 
She  saw  him  pause  for  seconds  at  a  time,  looking 
for  a  new  foothold  in  the  rocky  soil  as  the  one  he 
stood  on  slowly  crumbled,  rattled  down  the  incline, 
and  shot  over  the  cliff  just  beneath  him. 

She  called  out  to  him  warningly  once,  and  she 
was  startled  at  the  new  quality  in  her  voice.  What 
could  it  mean?  she  asked  herself.  Surely  she  was 
not  beginning  to —  She  pulled  her  eyes  from  him 
and  stared  almost  angrily  at  her  folded  hands,  tell- 
ing herself  that  she  could  not  deeply  care  for  any 
man.  Just  then  she  heard  a  small  avalanche  of  dis- 
rupted stone  sliding  down  the  mountain-side,  and, 
looking  up,  she  saw  Paul  hanging  by  a  single  hand 
to  a  shrub,  his  foothold  completely  gone.  She 
screamed  and  stood  up  in  the  buggy,  only  to  have 

258 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

him  turn  his  face,  while  his  feet  swung  free,  and 
smile  reassuringly. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  called  out.  "I'm  all  right." 
And  then  she  saw  him  calmly  placing  his  foot  on 
another  projection. 

From  that  point  he  moved  upward  till  the  violets 
were  reached,  and  she  saw  him  gathering  them  and 
twisting  them  together  in  a  tiny  bunch  with  a  rev- 
erence of  touch  which  was  observable  even  at  that 
distance.  Then,  the  stems  of  the  flowers  held  be- 
tween his  lips,  he  began  to  make  his  way  back,  and 
moments  of  keen  suspense  followed  in  which  she 
looked  away  from  him  to  avoid  the  consciousness 
of  his  danger.  Presently  he  was  by  her  side,  his 
brow  beaded  with  perspiration,  his  broad  chest 
rising  and  falling  from  his  exertion.  Without  a 
word  he  gave  her  the  violets  and  got  into  the 
buggy. 

"Why  did  you  take  all  that  risk?"  she  asked  re- 
proachfully. "I  want  the  flowers,  it  is  true;  but, 
oh!  if  you  had  lost  your  hold  and  fallen — "  She 
went  no  further. 

"It  does  seem  dangerous  when  you  look  at  it 
from  down  here,"  he  answered,  critically  glancing 
up  at  the  cliff.  "But  that  is  because  we  can  see 
the  full  height  of  the  bluff.  Up  there,  you  know, 
I  couldn't  look  over  the  edge.  If  I  had,  perhaps  I 
might  have  grown  dizzy." 

"Paul,"  Ethel  said,  after  they  had  remained  si- 
lent for  several  minutes,  "I  am  very  grateful  to 
you.  When  I  am  with  you  I  don't  suffer  so  much 
over  poor  Jennie's  death.  Somehow  you  inspire  me 
with  your  faith.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  favor — 
one  favor,  and  then  I'm  done  with  it.    Will  you  please 

259 


Paul     Rundel 

tell  me  positively,  in  so  many  words,  that  you  really 
are  convinced  that  she  is  still  in  existence.  I  know 
you've  already  said  so,  in  a  way,  but  I  want  to  re- 
member your  exact  words,  so  if  I  become  despond- 
ent again  I  can  repeat  them  over  and  over  to 
myself." 

Paul  laughed  and  glanced  at  her  tenderly  and  wist- 
fully. "I  believe  it  as  positively  as  I  believe  that 
I  am  here  with  you  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  quite 
gravely, 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned,  simply.  "I  am 
going  to  believe  it  because  you  do.  I  know  that 
you  know  the  truth.  I  know  it — I  know  it!"  She 
held  the  violets  to  her  lips,  and  it  was  as  if  she  kissed 
the  purple  petals. 

A  glow  as  of  reviving  health  seemed  to  suffuse  her 
wan  cheeks. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THAT  evening  after  supper,  as  Paul  sat  writing 
in  his  room,  his  employer  came  to  the  door  and 
looked  in. 

"Hello!"  was  his  half -tentative  greeting,  as  he 
slouched  in  and  took  a  chair  near  the  table.  "I've 
just  been  talkin'  to  my  sister.  She's  powerful 
tickled  over  the  effect  on  Eth'  of  your  trip  over 
the  mountain.  She  says  she's  actually  astonished. 
It  seems  like  the  gal's  goin'  to  quit  'er  foolishness. 
I  was  gettin'  powerful  sick  of  it  myself.  It's  hard 
enough  to  know  your  own  end's  got  to  come  some 
time  ahead  without  dyin'  every  time  anybody  else 
kicks  the  bucket." 

"I'm  glad  to  know  that  Miss  Ethel  feels  better." 
Paul  dipped  his  pen  and  continued  to  write. 

Hoag  crossed  his  fat  legs  and,  reaching  down  to  his 
right  shoe,  he  began  to  fumble  the  string.  "I  want 
to  see  you  about  a  certain  matter,"  he  began,  clear- 
ing his  throat.  "I  don't  know  as  you  will  consider 
it  any  o'  my  business  exactly,  but  it  is  something 
that  I  thought  you  ought  to  be  prepared  for." 

"What  is  it?"  Paul  put  his  pen  into  the  rack 
and  leaned  toward  the  speaker. 

"Why,  I  was  talkin'  to  Bob  Maybum  this  mom- 
in'.  You  know  his  land  joins  mine  on  the  west. 
He  had  a  few  acres  to  rent  an'  was  afraid  he  wouldn't 
find  a  tenant;  but  he  has  hooked  one  at  last,  and 
who  under  the  shinin'  sun  do  you  reckon  he  got?" 

261 


Paul      Rundel 

"I  haven't  the  sHghtest  idea,"  Paul  answered. 

"Jeff  Warren,"  Hoag  said,  his  eyes  bluntly  fixed 
on  the  young  man's  face  in  a  groping  stare  of  pleased 
curiosity. 

"Oh!"  Paul  exclaimed.  "I  didn't  know  he  was 
anywhere  near  Grayson." 

"He  ain't  got  here  yet,"  Hoag  went  on,  a  note 
of  vindictive  harshness  creeping  into  his  voice. 
"The  triflin'  skunk  has  been  over  in  Alabama  with 
yore  ma  an'  her  sister  tryin'  to  make  a  livin'  farmin', 
but  without  any  sort  o'  headway.  He  wrote  May- 
burn  that  he  was  up  to  his  eyes  in  debt  over  thar — 
plumb  busted — an'  that  they'd  all  three  got  sick 
an'  tired  o'  livin'  among  strangers,  an'  was  anxious 
to  git  back  here  whar  they  are  acquainted.  May- 
bum's  got  a  comfortable  new  frame  cottage  on  his 
land  that's  empty,  but  knowin'  that  Jeff  couldn't 
pay  for  it,  he  wrote  'im  that  it  was  already  rented. 
Thar  is  an  old  log  cabin  close  to  the  cottage,  an'  ac- 
cordin'  to  the  agreement  Jeff  an'  his  lay-out  is  to 
occupy  that.  It's  tough  on  a  feller  of  Jeff's  high  an' 
mighty  pride,  but  it  is  as  good  as  he  deserves." 

Paul  made  no  reply,  a  shadow  lay  across  his  sensi- 
tive face.  He  took  up  the  pen  again,  but  he  did 
not  begin  to  use  it. 

"I  knowed  you  wouldn't  like  it  a  bit,"  Hoag  con- 
tinued, unctuously.  "Here  you  are  risin'  as  fast 
as  a  dog  can  trot,  gittin'  the  respect  an'  favorable 
opinion  of  the  best  folks  in  the  county,  an'  it's 
tough  to  have  a  thing  like  that  revived  right  when 
you  ain't  lookin'  for  it.  I've  no  doubt  you  wouldn't 
have  settled  here  if  you  had  thought  such  a  thing 
would  happen." 

"Warren  is  a  free  man."  Paul's  brows  met,  and 
262 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

his  eyes  held  a  far-off  gleam.  "He  has  as  much 
right  here  as  I." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  Hoag  admitted;  "but  he's 
got  a  nasty,  quarrelsome  disposition,  an'  accordin' 
to  some  o'  his  friends  he  still  holds  a  big  grudge 
ag'in'  you.  It  was  humiliatin'  the  way  you  plugged 
'im  an'  left  'im  to  die  like  a  pig  in  the  woods.  You 
see,  whar  I'm  interested  is  this:  I  want  you  to  keep 
on  workin'  without  interruption,  an'  knowin'  what 
a  hot  temper  you've  got  yourself — well,  I  see  that 
you  an'  him  will  jest  have  to  hitch  ag'in.  I'm  sorry 
he's  comin'  back  m3^self.  I  never  liked  'im.  It  is 
not  often  that  I  belittle  myself  by  takin'  notice  of 
a  triflin'  clodhopper  like  him;  but  he's  been  in  my 
way  several  times,  an'  may  step  in  ag'in,  for  aU  I 
know." 

Paul  drew  a  ledger  toward  him  and  opened  it. 
"I'm  glad  you  told  me  this,"  he  said.  "I've  got 
a  lot  of  work  to  do  before  bedtime.  I  know  you 
will  excuse  me  if  I  go  at  it." 

' '  Oh  yes,  oh  yes !"  Hoag  rose,  staring  in  a  puzzled, 
thwarted  sort  of  way.  "I  don't  want  to  hinder 
you.  I'll  be  goin'.  I  just  thought  I'd  throw  out 
a  hint  about  the  matter.  It  is  well  to  be  prepared 
for  trouble  if  it  has  to  com.e,  an' — an'  a  man  like 
Warren  is  sure  to  pick  a  row." 

Hoag  lingered  a  moment,  but  seeing  that  the 
young  man  was  at  work  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  following  Sunday  was  a  somber  day  for 
Paul  Rundel.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  in 
the  gray  of  dawn,  and  lay  watching  the  pink  flood 
of  light  as  it  widened  and  lengthened  along  the  east- 
ern horizon,  his  first  thought  was  the  despondent  one 
under  which  he  had  dropped  to  sleep — it  was  the 
day  Edward  Peterson  was  to  visit  Ethel. 

Paul  rose  and  stood  at  the  window  and  looked 
out  over  the  lawn  and  frowsy  brown  roofs  of  the 
tannery  sheds.  He  was  cringing  under  a  poignant 
agony  that  permeated  his  whole  being,  clogged  the 
blood  in  his  veins,  and  sucked  away  the  very 
breath  of  the  life  which  had  recently  been  so 
full  of  indefinable  content.  The  cause  was  not 
hard  to  find.  He  was  convinced  that  Ethel  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  his  happiness.  Had  he 
not  met  her  again  on  his  return  to  Georgia  she 
might  have  remained  in  his  memory  only  as  the 
young  girl  who  had  been  so  unexpectedly  kind  and 
gentle  to  a  poor  outcast;  but  he  had  recently  found 
himself  more  nearly  on  a  social  level  with  her,  and 
he  had  actually  helped  her.  She  had  said  so.  She 
had  shown  it  in  her  words  and  actions,  in  her  turn- 
ing, under  his  guidance,  from  despair  to  hope. 
Yet  she  was  to  be  another  man's  wife,  a  man  who 
was  evidently  not  disturbed  by  any  fine-spun  ideas 
of  the  Infinite  or  of  duty  to  humanity.  Peterson 
would  forge  ahead  in  the  happy  way  such  men  have, 

264 


P  a  u  1     R  u  n  d  c  1 

surmounting  obstacle  after  obstacle,  climbing  higher 
and  higher  in  the  estimation  of  men,  and  reaping 
honor  after  honor.  Ethel  would  marry  him.  Her 
uncle  wished  it,  all  her  friends  counted  on  it.  To 
refuse  Peterson  would  be  madness.  The  man — 
especially  a  poor  man — who  would  ask  her  to  do 
otherwise  for  his  sake  would  be  mad.  Yes,  all 
thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  sympathetic  friend 
must  be  crushed.  When  Jeff  Warren  and  his  wife 
came  to  live  in  their  sordid  cabin  on  the  roadside 
Ethel  and  her  mother  would  pass  their  door  daily 
and  realize  fully  the  caste  to  which  Paul  belonged. 

He  dressed  himself  and  descended  to  the  lawn. 
He  raised  his  arms  and  lowered  them,  and  inhaled 
deep  breaths  in  his  usual  morning  exercise;  but  it 
was  done  without  zest  and  with  the  conviction  that 
it  would  not  be  of  benefit  while  such  morbid  thoughts 
ran  rife  within  him.  He  must  throw  them  off.  He 
must  face  life  as  it  was.  He  had  suffered  before. 
He  must  suffer  again.  After  all,  might  he  not  hold 
Ethel  in  his  heart  as  his  ideal  woman,  even  after  she 
had  become  the  wife  of  another?  It  must  be — that 
was  all  that  was  left  him — and  yet,  and  yet — 

A  sharp  pain  shot  through  him.  His  senses  swam; 
the  mocking  rays  of  the  rising  sun  flared  upon  him. 
Ethel  another  man's  wife!  Ethel  the  recipient  of 
another  man's  caresses!  Ethel  the  mother  of  another 
man's — 

"O  God,  have  mercy!"  he  moaned,  and  he  turned 
down  toward  the  gate,  almost  swaying  as  he  moved 
across  the  grass. 

"Are  you  going  for  a  walk?"  It  was  Ethel's 
cheery  voice,  and  it  came  from  the  veranda.  Glanc- 
ing back  he  saw  her  lightly  tripping  down  the  steps. 
IS  265 


Paul     Rundel 

"Because  if  you  are,  I'll  go  too — if  you  wiU  let  me. 
I  was  up  and  dressed,  and  saw  you  from  the  win- 
dow.    Oh,  isn't  the  sunrise  beautiful?" 

As  in  a  dream  he  stood  waiting  for  her,  and  together 
they  passed  through  the  gate  out  upon  the  grayish, 
stony  road,  which  sloped  gradually  up  the  moun- 
tain. He  had  smiled  and  bowed,  but  was  unable 
to  formulate  any  suitable  words  of  greeting.  She 
was  studying  his  face  slowly,  furtively,  and  with  an 
anxiety  she  was  trying  to  hide. 

"You  look  a  little  paler  than  you  did  yesterday," 
she  said,  hesitatingly.     "Did  you  not  sleep  well?" 

"I  worked  rather  late  last  night,"  was  his  evasive 
answer.  "Night-work  sometimes  has  a  rather  de- 
pressing effect  on  me." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered,  still  studying  his 
features,  "and  yet  usually  you  are  so  full  of  happy 
spirits.  Perhaps  you" — she  hesitated — "would 
rather  be  alone?" 

"Oh,  how  could  you  say  that?"  he  exclaimed. 
"It  is  just  the  contrary.  I  don't  feel,  however, 
that  I  have  quite  the  right  to  intrude  on  you  in 
your — your — ' ' 

"You  needn't  look  at  it  that  way,"  she  broke  in, 
not  yet  fully  convinced  that  she  had  fathomed  his 
mood.  "In  fact,  I  want  to  see  you.  I  want  to  tell 
you  how  much  you  have  helped  me.  You  have  made 
me  realize  my  error.  I  was  depressing  my  mother 
and  every  one  else  by  my  gloomy  hopelessness;  but 
now — well,  I  seem  to  have  absorbed  some  of  your 
wonderful  philosophy.  I  slept  last  night,  as  uncle 
would  say,  'like  a  log,'  and  I  feel  much  better  this 
morning." 

"Peterson  is  coming;    that  is  the  cause,"  Paul 

266 


Paul     Rundel 

groaned  inwardl}-,  and  he  glanced  away,  that  she 
might  not  read  the  thought  in  his  eyes.  To  her  he 
said,  aimlessly :  "I  am  glad — very,  very  glad.  Hope 
is  the  only  thing.  Once  one  has  it,  all  things  be- 
come possible." 

"And  you  are  so  full  of  it,"  she  ran  on,  glibly. 
' '  I  was  speaking  to  my  mother  about  you  last  night. 
She  declared  she  did  not  think  any  one  could  come 
in  contact  with  you  and  be  despondent.  She  said 
it  was  a  comfort  just  to  watch  the  play  of  your  fea- 
tures and  hear  the  cheerful  ring  of  your  voice.  Per- 
haps you  don't  realize,  Paul,  how  God  has  blessed 
you.  To  go  through  life  throwing  out  a  radiance 
like  yours  is — well,  it  is  next  to — divinity." 

"Divinity,  divinity!"  The  words  seemed  to  slip 
from  his  lips  incautiously.  "There  are  philosophers, 
Ethel,  who  believe  that  God  Himself  suffers  in  His 
hampered  effort  to  bring  things  up  to  His  ideal,  and 
that,  as  parts  of  Him,  we,  too,  must  suffer  as  long  as 
He  suffers.  It  may  be  that  the  more  we  partake  of 
His  essence  the  more  we  have  to  bear.  Who  knows  ? 
The  person  who  can  bury  himself  in  the  stirring 
affairs  of  earth  has  a  bliss  which,  if  due  to  ignorance, 
is  nevertheless  bliss." 

"This  is  not  like  you  a  bit,"  Ethel  said,  in  pained 
reproachf ulncss ;  and  then  a  light  broke  upon  her. 
She  understood.  Her  heart  beat  more  quickly, 
and  a  hot  flush  mantled  her  brow.  She  hoped  he 
would  not  note  her  confusion.  She  must  have 
time  to  think,  to  consider.  Many  grave  things 
might  hang  upon  what  he  or  she  might  impulsively 
say  on  the  crumbling  edge  of  a  precipice  like  that. 
She  must  not  allow  her  sympathies  to  rule  her.  She 
must  never  encourage  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love 

267 


Paul     Ru  ndel 

with  her  whole  heart,  and  how  was  a  girl  to  judge 
calmly  when  a  man  was  such  a  glorified  sufferer? 

"According  to  your  views,  Paul,"  she  continued, 
"faith  in  the  goodness  of  God  will  bring  all  possible 
things." 

"Save  the  things  of  earth."  She  saw  his  fine 
mouth  writhe  under  a  sardonic  smile  as  he  recklessly 
plunged  into  what  he  knew  was  mad  indiscretion. 
"A  jealous  man  cannot  walk  in  the  footsteps  of  a 
jealous  God." 

Ethel  avoided  his  desperate  and  yet  frankly  apolo- 
getic eyes.  She  shrank  within  herself.  She  was 
sure  his  words  were  becoming  dangerously  pertinent. 
She  kept  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  she  paused  at 
a  lichen-grown  boulder,  rested  a  white,  throbbing 
hand  on  it,  and  listlessly  surveyed  the  trees  about 
the  farm-house. 

"I  am  sure  you  cannot  possibly  realize  the  good 
you  are  doing,"  she  said,  with  abrupt  irrelevance. 
"I  want  to  tell  you  something.  It  is  about  my 
cousin  Henry.  You  know  I  have  never  liked  him 
very  much,  but  the  other  day  I  was  thrown  with 
him  at  the  dinner- table  after  the  others  had  left. 
He  was  very  downcast  and  sad  over  some  recent 
trouble  with  his  father,  and,  to  my  great  surprise, 
he  spoke  regretfully  of  his  useless  life.  He  said  you 
had  talked  to  him,  given  him  good  advice,  and  that 
you  had  helped  him  borrow  money  to  go  into  busi- 
ness on  at  Grayson.  Paul,  I  am  sure  you  won't 
lose  by  it.  He  told  me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that 
he  would  rather  die  than  disappoint  you." 

"I  am  sure  he  will  succeed,"  Paul  said.  "He  has 
energy  and  enthusiasm,  and  is  anxious  to  prove  him- 
self.    I  was  surprised  to  have  the  bank  accept  my 

268 


Paul      R  u  n  d  c 1 

indorsement,  but  they  did  quite  readily.  I  really 
have  great  faith  in  him.  He  is  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  that  is  a  fine  beginning." 

Ethel  was  turning,  to  proceed  higher  up  on  the 
road,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"We  must  not  get  beyond  the  sound  of  the  break- 
fast-bell," he  warned  her. 

"No,  for  I  am  hungry,"  she  answered,  eying  him 
still  with  anxious  studiousness.  She  turned  back 
toward  the  farm-house,  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  said :  * '  Did  you  happen  to  see  the — the  flowers 
on  the  mantelpiece  in  your  room?  I  gathered  them 
and  put  them  there  yesterday." 

"Oh,  did  you?"  he  cried,  eagerly.  "That  was 
very  kind  of  you.  I  thought  that  Mrs.  Tilton  did 
it.     They  fill  the  whole  room  with  fragrance." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  them,"  Ethel  said.  "By  the 
way,  I  couldn't  help  glancing  at  your  books.  I 
now  know  where  you  get  your  wisdom.  What  a 
wholesome  group  of  mental  companions  you  have!" 

"Those  are  my  special  favorites,"  he  answered. 
"If  you  wish  to  read  any  of  them  please  help  your- 
self." 

"I  was  really  hinting  at  that,"  she  laughed.  "You 
have  roused  my  curiosity.  I  want  to  read  what 
you  have  read  and  liked.  There,  that  is  the  break- 
fast-bell!" 

She  quickened  her  step,  tripping  on  ahead  of  him 
with  a  little  laugh  which  held  a  note  of  vague  un- 
easiness. Presently  she  slowed  down,  and  with  a 
look  of  gentle  concern  in  the  glance  which  she  di- 
rected to  him  she  faltered: 

"I  hope  you  won't  get  angry  with  my  mother  for 
something  she  is  going  to  inflict  on  you  and  me 

269 


Paul     Rundel 

this  morning.  Being  opposed  to  working  on  Sun- 
day, she  remained  up  last  night  and  arranged  the 
table  for  dinner  to-day.  She  has  it  gleaming  like 
a  bank  of  snow,  and  fairly  covered  with  evergreens, 
ferns,  and  flowers.  She  insists  that  we  take  our 
breakfast  this  once  in  the  kitchen.  She  is  afraid 
we  will  disarrange  something.  She  thinks  a  good 
deal  of  Mr.  Peterson — Colonel  Peterson  now,  for 
you  know  the  paper  yesterday  said  he  was  taken 
on  the  staff  of  the  Governor.  He  confided  to  us 
some  time  ago  that  he  had  hopes  in  that  direction, 
having  worked  hard  and  pulled  wires  for  the  Gov- 
ernor during  his  recent  campaign.  On  state  occa- 
sions Mr.  Peterson  will  wear  a  glittering  uniform, 
carry  a  sword,  and  be  as  stiff  as  a  polished  brass 
poker.  Oh,  he  will  like  it  immensely,  but  I  can 
never  call  him  'Colonel.'" 

"It  certainly  would  not  do  to  put  him  in  the 
kitchen,"  Paul  said,  significantly;  "at  least  not  with 
his  regalia  on.  Aunt  Dilly  might  spill  something 
on  his  epaulets." 

"I  see  even  you — good  as  you  are — can  make 
sport  of  people  now  and  then,"  Ethel  said,  her  eyes 
twinkling  approvingly.  "However,  I  am  not  going 
to  let  you  sit  in  the  kitchen  this  morning.  I'll  bring 
your  breakfast  and  mine  out  to  the  table  in  the 
summer-house.     It  will  be  great  fun,  won't  it?" 

"I  certainly  do  not  consider  myself  above  the 
kitchen,"  he  returned,  in  too  bitter  a  tone  to  fall 
well  into  her  forced  levity.  "I've  eaten  at  second 
table  in  a  circus  dining- tent,  with  the  negro  horse- 
feeders  in  a  gipsy  camp,  as  a  beggar  at  the  kitchen 
door  of  a  farm-house,  and  barely  escaped  having  my 
ration  pushed  through  the  iron  wicket  of  a  prison. 


1^  a  u  1     R  11  n  d  e  1 

I  am  certainly  unworthy  of — of  the  summer-house 
and  such — such  gracious  company.  I  mean  this — 
I  mean  it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"You  sha'n't  talk  that  way — you  sha'n't,  you 
sha'n't!"  Ethel's  eyes  flashed  and  her  round,  full 
voice  quivered.  "You  have  said  yourself  that  all 
those  unfortunate  things  were  behind  you.  for  ever 
and  ever  things  of  the  past." 

"Except  when  I  need  sharp,  personal  discipline," 
he  smiled  significantly,  "and  I  need  that  now.  I 
need  it  to  kill  blind,  hopeless,  impossible  desire." 

"You  mean — "  But  Ethel  checked  herself.  He 
seemed  such  a  riddle — such  a  profound,  alluring 
dangerous  riddle  as  he  walked  beside  her  with  that 
gray  look  of  desperate  renunciation  on  his  sensitive 
face,  beneath  the  surface  of  which  smoldered  un- 
quenchable fires  of  passion. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  her.  He  laid  his  trembling 
fingers  on  her  arm  for  a  bare,  reverent  instant. 

"I  am  a  coward  at  times,  Ethel.  You  must  for- 
give my  weakness.  I  groan  under  a  burden  that 
I  know  is  right  because  it  is  from  the  Infinite.  No 
man  should  be  as  vain  as  I  am  tempted  to  be  w'hcn 
I  am  with  you.  You  can't  understand  now,  but 
some  day  you  may — if  not  here,  in  Eternity.  There 
is  only  one  way  to  look  at  it,  and  that  is  that  God 
intends  me  to  suffer." 

Ethel  found  herself  unable,  wisely  at  least,  to 
make  any  sort  of  suitable  response,  and  in  awkward 
silence  they  walked  along  together  till  the  gate  was 
reached.  Then  she  said,  nervously,  and  yet  with 
firmness  that  was  quite  evident:  "I  w^ant  you  to 
meet  my  friend  to-day  at  dinner.  I  want  him  to 
know  you.     He  belongs  to  a  class  of  men  who  seem 

271 


Paul     Rundel 

too  busy  to  think  of  deep  things — things  aside  from 
an  active  routine,  but  I  am  sure  he  will  like  you." 

Paul's  face  clouded  over;  he  averted  his  eyes  as 
he  unlatched  the  gate  and  swung  it  open.  "Thank 
you,  but  I  am  afraid  I  can't  to-day,"  he  said. 
' '  Uncle  Si  and  his  wife  have  asked  me  to  take  dinner 
with  them." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  Ethel  answered.  "My  mother 
will  regret  it,  too,  for  she  admires  you  and  likes 
you  very  much.  But  we  shall  have  our  breakfast 
together  in  the  summer-house,  sha'n't  we?"  She 
glanced  at  the  little  vine-clad  structure  and  essayed 
a  playful  smile.  "Now,  run  in  and  take  a  seat,  and 
let  me  attend  to  everything." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THAT  afternoon,  while  the  ladies  were  taking 
what  Hoag  called  their  "sy-esta"  in  their 
rooms,  he  entertained  the  guest,  who  was  a  dapper 
young  man  exquisitely  dressed  and  carefully  groomed, 
even  to  the  daintiest  of  waxed  mustaches.  The  two 
men  were  smoking  in  the  big,  cool  parlor  and  chatting 
agreeably. 

"Well,  I  am  not  going  to  refuse  the  title."  Peter- 
son laughed  in  a  pleasurable  way  after  Hoag  had 
made  a  bald  jest  about  the  honor  recently  conferred 
upon  him.  "I  am  no  bom  idiot,  Mr.  Hoag.  I 
know  some  folks  sort  of  poke  fun  at  the  new  Hst 
of  Georgia  colonels  after  every  gubernatorial  race; 
but  even  a  handle  to  a  fellow's  name  like  that 
helps  now  and  then.  Take  Colonel  Pangle  there  in 
Atlanta,  our  big  criminal  lawyer,  you  know.  Why, 
he  wasn't  in  the  war;  he  never  fired  a  shot  or  dodged 
a  ball.  He  organized  a  httle  local  military  company 
in  his  home  town.  I  don't  reckon  he  had  more  than 
thirty  men  at  any  time,  and  his  rank,  at  the  best 
wouldn't  have  been  above  captain;  but  he  was 
a  dignified-looking  fellow  with  a  heav>^  mustache 
and  goatee,  and  they  called  him  Colonel  on  the 
spot,  and  when  he  moved  to  Atlanta  the  title  fol- 
lowed him.  The  boys  at  the  bank  were  disposed  to 
joke  when  my  commission  came — saluting  me  like 
a  bunch  of  jumping-jacks;  but  you  bet  I  cut  it  out. 
Think  little  of  yourself,  and  the  world  will  do  the 

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Paul     Rundel 

same.'  That's  my  motto.  You  noticed  how  nice 
the  papers  spoke  about  it,  didn't  you?  Well,  I 
stand  in  with  the  reporters.  They  are  my  pohtical 
friends;  we  take  a  drink  together  now  and  then, 
and  they  know  how  I  look  at  such  things.  I  am 
hitting  the  bull's  eye  down  there  in  that  burg,  Mr. 
Hoag,  just  as  you've  hit  it  here.  We  are  two  of  a 
kind.  It  doesn't  take  much  gray  matter  to  succeed 
among  these  slow,  ante-bellum  leave-overs  here  in 
the  South." 

Hoag  laughed  heartily.  "Oh,  you  are  all  right," 
he  said.  "I've  had  my  eye  on  you  ever  since  you 
started  out.  As  the  sayin'  is,  you  could  make  money 
on  a  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean." 

Peterson's  features  settled  into  rigidity  suddenly, 
and  he  exhaled  a  tentative  breath,  as  he  held  his  ci- 
gar between  his  fingers  and  leaned  toward  his  host. 
"As  certain  as  I  am  about  men,  business  deals,  and 
politics,  Mr.  Hoag,  I'm  going  to  admit  to  you  that 
I'm  a  country  school-teacher — a  knot  on  a  log — when 
it  comes  to  handling  a  woman.  Don't  you  reckon 
every  fellow  is  that  way  that  is  kind  o'  submerged, 
so  to  speak,  in  the  affairs  of  the  business  world? 
I  know  I  am  a  regular  stick,  and  I  don't  know  how 
to  help  myself." 

"I  reckon  you  are  talkin'  about  Eth',"  Hoag  said, 
with  more  bluntness  than  a  diplomat  would  have 
employed.  "At  least,  I've  wondered  why  you  an' 
her  both  seem  so  offish.  I  don't  reckon  you  come 
all  the  way  up  here  on  a  holiday  like  this  to  talk 
business  to  me,  an'  as  for  Eth' — well,  I  can't  make 
'er  out,  that's  all;  an'  what's  the  use  to  try?  A 
woman  is  hard  to  understand  when  she  is  willin' 
to  be  understood,  an'  a  devil  to  fathom  when  she 

274 


Paul     R  u  n  ti  e  1 

ain't.  Folks  tell  me  some  high-strung  gals  would 
ruther  die  than  let  a  man  know  they  are  gone  on 
'im." 

"I  know,"  Peterson  repHed.  "I  used  to  size  Miss 
•Ethel  up  that  way  down  home  among  the  other 
girls;  but  this  morning,  when  me'n  her  strolled  down 
to  the  spring,  it  looked  to  me  as  if  she  didn't  want  to 
talk  about  anything  but  books — an'  books  that  I've 
never  heard  about  to  boot.  She  had  a  thick  one  under 
her  arm  and  I  peeped  in  it.  I  think  it  was  by  Cato — 
no,  that  is  the  name  of  your  stable-boy,  isn't  it? 
Oh,  yes,  now  I  remember;  it  was  Plato,  Plato.  He 
was  one  of  the  old-time  fellows,  wasn't  he — before 
the  Revolution,  anyway?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know."  Hoag  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders as  if  the  question  were  a  disagreeable  incubus 
suddenly  fastened  upon  him.  "I  don't  know  any 
more'n  a  rabbit.  I  set  one  night  an'  listened  to 
Paul  Rundel  an'  her  talkin'  on  the  veranda  an'  I 
hardly  understood  one  word  in  five.  That  fellow 
is  the  damnedest  chap  I  ever  run  across." 

"Is  he  the  man  you  told  me  about  coming  home 
to  give  himself  up?" 

"Yes;  an'  I've  had  'im  managin'  for  me  ever 
since.  He's  a  wheel-hoss.  He's  doubled  my  income ; 
he's  as  keen  as  a  brier;  knows  how  to  manage 
laborin'  men.  They  think  the  sun  rises  an'  sets  in 
'im.  He  don't  indorse  no  church  in  particular,  an' 
yet  the  women  say  he's  religious.  Men  that  was 
too  triflin'  to  draw  the  breath  o'  life  under  me  work 
like  puffin'  steam-engines  for  him." 

"And  he  sits  around  at  odd  times  and  talks  books?" 
Peterson  said,  a  faultfinding  frown  on  his  face. 

"That's  the  way  he  seems  to  get  his  relaxation," 

2/5 


Paul     Rundel 

Hoag  returned.  "Well,  I  don't  care  how  religious 
he  is.  Sometimes  that  helps.  I  had  a  little  cross- 
roads store  away  back  in  my  early  day  an'  I  didn't 
have  time  to  manage  it.  I  kept  hirin'  fellows  to  run 
it,  an'  every  one  I  got  would  soak  me — steal  money 
an'  goods  so  thar  wasn't  a  sign  o'  profit.  But 
one  day  a  misfit  parson  come  along.  He  had  failed 
to  make  good.  He  was  tongue-tied  an'  he  stuttered 
so  bad  that  he  made  the  mourners  laugh  an'  had  to 
quit  preachin'.  I  gave  him  the  job,  an'  it  was  the 
best  deal  I  ever  made.  The  fellow  was  so  honest 
that  he  wouldn't  use  a  postage-stamp  for  any  private 
purpose,  or  take  a  chaw  o'  tobacco,  without  enterin' 
it  on  his  account.  He  kept  a  big  Bible  on  the 
counter,  an'  so  many  o'  his  sort  hung  around  that 
the  store  looked  like  a  Salvation  headquarters;  but 
the  gang  bought  plenty  o'  goods  an'  paid  cash.  I 
never  forgot  that  experience,  an'  when  I  saw  the 
kind  o'  man  Paul  had  got  to  be  I  raked  'im  in." 

"You  say  he — sometimes  talks  to  Miss  Ethel?" 
Peterson  asked,  the  flicker  of  vague  rebellion  in  his 
eyes. 

"Oh  yes,"  Hoag  answered,  indifferently.  "She's 
been  powerfully  worried  over  Jennie's  death,  an' 
Paul,  somehow,  seems  to  brace  her  up  with  his  odd 
views  in  regard  to  a  happy  land.  Maybe" — Hoag 
hesitated,  and  then  pursued  more  confidently — 
"maybe  if  you  sorter  talked  a  little  on  that  line 
yourself  it  would  catch  her  fancy.  Anything  is  fair 
in  love  an'  war  when  a  woman  is  clean  upset  like 
Eth'  is." 

"I  believe  in  religion,"  the  banker  declared,  quite 
gravely.  "I  always  have  a  good  word  for  it.  I 
don't  believe  this  world  could  get  along  without  it. 

276 


Paul     Rundel 

All  of  us  at  the  bank  are  in  some  church  or  other. 
I'm  a  Baptist,  you  know;  all  my  folks  are  of  that 
persuasion.  And  my  church  has  made  me  it's 
treasurer.  First  and  last  our  bank  handles  a  pile 
of  its  funds.  If  the  heathen  have  to  wait  for  it 
sometimes  we  get  the  interest  on  it.  But,  say,  Mr. 
Hoag,  I'm  sort  o'  worried  over  this  thing — I  mean 
about  this  queer  duck  you've  got  working  for  you." 

"Well,  don't  let  that  bother  you."  Hoag  filled  the 
awkward  pause  with  a  soft,  satisfied  chuckle.  "Eth' 
understands  what  I  want,  and  so  does  her  ma.  Both 
of  'em  know  I'd  never  give  in  to  her  marryin'  such  a 
— why,  he  belongs  to  the  lowest  stock  this  country 
ever  produced — as  nigh  dirt-eaters  as  any  folks  you 
ever  saw.  He's  picked  up  some  learnin'  out  West, 
an'  has  got  brains  an'  pluck;  but  no  niece  o'  mine 
could  tie  herself  to  a  bunch  o'  folks  Hke  that.  Humph, 
I  say — well,  I  reckon  not !  He'd  not  have  the  cheek 
to  think  of  it.  You  leave  the  affair  in  my  hands. 
I  won't  push  matters  now,  but  I  will  put  in  my 
oar  at  the  right  time." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  no  woman  coerced.''  Peter- 
son brightened  even  as  he  protested.  "I  don't 
want  that  exactly,  but  Miss  Ethel  is  the  girl  I've 
been  looking  for.  I  can't  get  her  out  of  my  mind. 
She  would  be  an  ornament  and  a  help  to  any  rising 
man.  I  ought  to  marry;  there  is  no  sort  of  doubt 
on  that  line,  and  though  I  might  look  the  field  over 
she — well,  she  simply  fills  the  bill,  that's  all.  I'm 
going  to  erect  a  fine  home  on  Peachtree  Street, 
and  I  want  her  to  preside  over  it." 

"An'  I  want  a  place  to  stop  when  I  run  down 
thar,"  Hoag  laughed.     "You  leave  it  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XV 

JEFF  WARREN  and  the  two  women  of  his 
family  were  on  their  way  back  to  their  former 
home.  A  wagon,  a  rickety  affair  on  wabbly  wheels, 
covered  by  a  clay-stained  canvas  stretched  over 
hoops,  and  drawn  by  a  skeleton  of  a  horse,  contained 
all  their  earthly  possessions.  Peering  under  the 
hood  of  the  wagon,  an  observer  might  see  two 
musty  straw  mattresses,  an  old  hair-covered  tnmk,  a 
table,  three  chairs,  a  box  of  dishes,  and  a  sooty  col- 
lection of  pots,  pans,  kettles,  pails,  and  smoothing- 
irons.  Carefully  wrapped  in  bedquilts,  and  tied 
with  ropes,  was  the  household  joy,  a  cottage- 
organ.  Tethered  to  the  wagon  in  the  rear  was  a 
cow  which  tossed  her  head  impatiently  under  the 
rope  around  her  horns,  and  dismally  mooed  to  her 
following  calf. 

Jeff  now  belonged  to  the  shiftless  class  of  small 
farmers  that  drifts  from  one  landowner  to  another, 
renting  a  few  acres  on  shares  and  failing  on  at  least 
every  other  crop.  The  three  members  of  the  family 
were  equal  partners  in  misfortune;  for  both  Mrs. 
Rundel  and  her  sister  quite  frequently  toiled  in 
the  fields,  using  the  hoe,  the  scythe,  the  spade, 
and  in  emergencies,  when  Warren's  rheumatism  was 
at  its  worst,  even  the  plow.  Still  of  irascible  tem- 
per, and  grown  more  sensitive  under  adversity, 
Jeff  had  quarreled  or  fought  with  almost  every  man 

278 


Paul      R  u  n  d  e I 

from  whom  he  had  rented  land,  until  he  now  found 
few  who  would  deal  with  him. 

As  he  walked  at  the  side  of  the  wagon  in  which  his 
companions  were  riding,  along  the  narrow  mountain 
road,  trampling  down  the  underbrush  which  bordered 
the  way,  he  had  still  about  him  a  remnant  of  the 
old  debonair  mien  which  had  made  him  a  social 
favorite  in  his  younger  days. 

Amanda,  as  is  the  case  with  many  women  who 
have  foresworn  matrimonial  and  maternal  cares, 
had  withstood  the  blight  of  time  remarkably  well. 
Her  round,  rosy  face  had  few  new  angles  or  lines, 
and  her  voice  rang  with  youthful  joy  when  she 
spoke  of  once  more  beholding  familiar  scenes  and 
faces.  It  was  her  sister  who  had  changed  to  a 
noticeable  degree.  There  was  a  lack-luster  ex- 
pression about  Addie's  light-brown  eyes,  which  had 
been  so  childlike  and  beautiful.  Her  hair  was  thin- 
ner; her  skin  had  yellowed  and  withered ;  her  teeth, 
for  the  most  part,  were  gone,  and  those  which  re- 
mained appeared  too  prominent,  isolated  as  they 
were  in  bare  gums,  when  she  forced  a  smile  over 
some  remark  of  her  cheerful  sister. 

Crude  as  she  was,  Addie  had  followed,  her  poor 
mental  hands  always  outstretched  to  grasp  it,  an 
ever-receding  masculine  ideal.  In  Jeff  Warren, 
with  his  love  of  music  and  courage  before  men  and 
gallantry  to  all  women,  she  had  once  beHeved  she 
had  found  it.  But  ideals  do  not  thrive  so  well  under 
hardship  as  violets  rooted  in  filth,  and  Addie's  heart 
constantly  ached  for  the  lost  and  the  unattain- 
able. 

Suddenly  Jeff  turned  to  his  companions  and  smiled. 
"I  reckon  I've  got  a  big  surprise  for  you  both,"  he 

279 


Paul     Run  del 

chuckled,  his  hand  resting  on  the  wagon -bed. 
"  'Tain't  the  first  o'  April,  but  I've  been  foolin'  you. 
I  tol'  you  this  was  White  Rock  Mountain,  but  it 
ain't  no  such  a  thing.  It  is  the  south  spur  of  our 
old  Bald,  and  as  soon  as  we  pass  through  that  gap 
up  thar  we'll  see  Grayson  right  at  the  foot." 

"You  don't  say!"  Amanda  clapped  her  hands 
in  delight.  "Lord,  Lord,  I  shorely  shall  be  tickled 
to  get  back!  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  every- 
body within  reach.  You'll  never  pull  me  away  again, 
Jefi — never!" 

Addie,  in  her  turn,  said  nothing.  She  scarcely 
smiled.  She  was  inexpressibly  pained  by  the  thought 
of  having  to  live  among  old  friends  and  associates 
in  the  dismantled  log  cabin  Jeff  had  reluctantly 
described.  A  reminiscent  sob  rose  and  died  within 
her  as  she  recalled  the  comfortable  farm-house  to 
which  Ralph  Rundel,  who  now  seemed  almost 
faultless,  had  taken  her  as  a  bride.  To  this 
another  pang  of  memory  was  added.  By  her  con- 
duct, innocent  though  it  was,  she  had  driven  her 
only  child  from  her,  and  how  many  times  had  her 
tired  heart  gone  back  to  the  sturdy  youth  who 
had  toiled  so  uncomplainingly,  and,  young  as  he  was, 
borne  so  many  burdens!  Was  Paul  alive  or  dead? 
she  often  asked  herself.  If  alive,  how  he  must  hate 
her !  If  dead,  then  the  baby,  which  she  now  some- 
times recalled  with  the  awakening  yearning  of  a 
mother's  dry  breast,  was  gone  forever. 

Slowly  the  horse  tugged  up  the  slope.  "Whoa!" 
Amanda  cried  out  suddenly.  "I'm  goin'  to  jump 
out  an'  walk  on  to  the  top.  I'm  simply  crazy  to 
git  a  look  at  the  valley.  Somehow  it  seems  like  the 
Promised  Land  fiowin'  with  milk  an'  honey." 

280 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

Only  too  willingly  the  horse  stopped,  and  she 
sprang  down  to  the  ground. 

"Don't  you  want  to  walk  a  little,  Addie?"  she 
asked.  "You'd  better  limber  up  your  legs.  I'm  as 
stiff  as  a  pair  o'  tongs." 

Mrs.  Warren  sadly  shook  her  head  and  Jeff  tossed 
the  reins  into  her  lap. 

"Well,  you  drive,"  he  said.  "We'll  walk  on  to 
the  top  an'  take  a  peep.  I  agree  with  you,  Mandy. 
I  don't  feel  like  I'll  ever  want  to  leave  this  country 
ag'in.  I  want  to  die  an'  be  buried  among  my 
kin." 

The  two  moved  faster  than  the  tired  horse,  and 
Addie  saw  them  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  out- 
lined against  the  blue  expanse  beyond.  She  noticed 
Jeff  pointing  here  and  there  and  waving  his  hand; 
even  at  that  distance  the  glow  of  his  animation  was 
observable.  Reaching  the  top,  Mrs.  Rundel  caught 
their  words,  and  in  the  depths  of  her  despondency 
she  wondered  over  their  gratification. 

"Not  a  new  buildin'  of  any  sort  that  I  kin  make 
out,"  she  heard  her  husband  saying.  "Thar,  you  kin 
see  Jim  Hoag's  house  above  the  bunch  o'  trees. 
It's  had  a  fresh  coat  o'  paint  lately;  look  how  bright 
the  window-blinds  are!" 

"An'  how  green  an'  fresh  everything  seems!"  com- 
mented the  more  poetic  spinster.  ' '  Looks  hke  thar's 
been  plenty  o'  rain  this  summer.  Oh,  I  love  it — I 
love  it!     It's  home — the  only  home  I  ever  knowed." 

The  horse  paused  close  by  them.  The  cow  mooed 
loudly,  and  the  calf  trotted  briskly  up  to  her  and 
began  to  butt  her  flabby  bag  with  his  sleek 
head. 

"That  looks  Hke  a  different-shaped  steeple  on  the 
19  281 


Paul     Rundel 

Methodist  meetin' -house,"  Amanda  commented,  as 
she  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  sun  and  stared  steadily 
off  into  the  distance. 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  by  hunky,"  Jeff  agreed. 
"This  un  is  fully  ten  foot  taller,  unless  them  trees 
around  it  has  been  topped  since  we  left.  He  turned 
to  his  wife,  and  a  shadow  of  chagrin  crept  across  his 
face  as  he  said :  "I  see  the  house  whar  you  an'  Raf e 
used  to  live — thar,  just  beyond  Hoag's  flour-mill. 
Well,  thar's  no  use  cryin'  over  spilt  milk,  old  girl; 
you  ain't  goin'  back  to  comfort  like  that,  as  scanty 
as  it  seemed  when  you  had  it,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  do 
such  wonders  in  the  money  line.  We'll  have  to 
swallow  a  big  chunk  o'  pride  to  put  up  with  a  hut 
like  our'n  among  old  friends,  but  we've  got  to 
live  life  out,  an'  the  cabin  is  the  best  we  kin  get  at 
present,  anyway." 

Addie,  holding  the  reins  in  her  thin  fingers,  rose 
to  her  full  height,  her  weary  eyes  on  her  old  home, 
which  stood  out  with  considerable  clearness  on  the 
red,  rain-washed  slope  beyond  a  stretch  of  green 
pasture.  She  saw  the  side  porch,  and  remembered 
how  Paul's  cradle  had  stood  there  on  warm  after- 
noons, where  she  and  Amanda  had  sat  and  sewed. 
Again  that  sense  of  lost  motherhood  stirred  within 
her,  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  contraction 
of  the  muscles  of  her  throat.  Surely,  she  mused, 
after  all  there  was  no  love  like  that  of  a  mother's  for 
her  child,  and  in  her  own  case  there  M'^as  so  much 
to  regret.  The  child  had  been  beautiful — every  one 
had  noticed  that.  Its  little  hands  were  so  chubby 
and  pink;  its  lips  like  a  cupid's  bow.  As  a  baby  it 
had  smiled  more  than  any  baby  she  had  ever  seen, 
and  yet  in  boyhood  the  smile  had  gradually  given 

282 


Paul    Rundel 

way  to  a  scowl  of  ever-increasing  discontent  and 
weariness  of  life  and  its  clashing  conditions. 

Amanda  and  Jeff  were  now  descending  the  moun- 
tain, and  the  horse  plodded  along  behind  them. 
They  must  hurry  on,  Jeff  said,  for  the  sun  would 
soon  be  down  and  they  must  get  to  the  cabin  before 
dark,  so  as  to  unload  and  shape  things  up  for  the 
night.  Fortunately,  as  he  took  care  to  remind  them, 
they  would  not  have  to  pass  through  the  village,  as 
the  hut  stood  in  the  outskirts  of  the  place,  close 
to  Hoag's  property  line. 

Reaching  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  they  took  a 
short  cut  through  some  old  unfenced  fields  to  the 
cabin.  Here  their  forebodings  were  more  than 
realized.  The  two  -  roomed  hut  was  worse  than 
they  had  expected.  It  was  built  of  logs,  and  had  a 
leaning  chimney  made  of  sticks  and  clay.  The  rain 
had  washed  the  clay  out  of  the  cracks  between  the 
logs  of  the  walls,  and  the  openings  were  stuffed  with 
rags,  paper,  and  dried  moss.  The  door  shutter,  with 
broken  hinges,  was  lying  on  the  ground.  The  door- 
step was  a  single  log  of  pine,  which  the  former  in- 
mate of  the  hut  had  chopped  half  away  for  kindling- 
wood.  The  wooden  shutters  to  the  tiny,  glassless 
windows  had  gone  the  same  way,  along  with  several 
boards  of  the  flooring. 

"May bum  lied  to  me  like  a  dirty  dog!"  Jeff 
growled,  his  face  dark  with  anger.  "He  said  it 
was  in  decent  shape — good  enough  for  any  farmer. 
When  I  see  'im  I'll—" 

"Yes,  you  will  want  to  fight  'im,  an'  then  we'll 
have  no  roof  over  us  at  all,"  Amanda  said,  with  a 
smile  designed  to  soften  her  own  disappointment  as 
well  as  his.     "I  tell  you,  Jeff,  we've  got  to  make 

2S3 


Paul     Rundel 

the  best  of  it  an'  be  thankful.  We'll  have  decent 
neighbors,  I'll  bet.  Look  at  that  nice  house  right 
in  our  yard." 

"That's  it,"  Jeff  thundered.  "Maybum  wrote 
me  this  shack  was  all  the  house  he  had,  an'  that  one 
is  his,  an*  is  empty.  He  insulted  me  by  sizin'  me 
up  that  way  before  I  even  got  here." 

"Well,  he'd  have  insulted  hisse'f  by  puttin'  us  in 
it  without  the  money  to  pay  for  it."  Amanda  had 
no  intention  of  adding  fuel  to  her  brother-in-law's 
wrath.  '  *  A  fine  house  like  that  would  be  worth  fifteen 
dollars  a  month  at  the  lowest.  You  better  not 
tackle  'im  about  it;  he  might  offer  it  to  us  cash  in 
advance — then  I'd  like  to  know  what  we'd  do. 
You  said  this  momin'  that  we'd  have  to  buy  our 
first  groceries  on  a  credit.  Jeff,  yore  pride  has  been 
yore  drawback  long  enough ;  you've  got  to  smother 
it  or  it  will  smother  you.  New  pick  up  that  door 
an'  hang  it  some  way  or  other.  I  won't  sleep  in  a 
house  that  can't  be  shut  up  at  night." 

Warren,  quite  beside  himself  in  disappointment 
and  ill-humor,  replaced  the  shutter  and  then  went 
to  work  unloading  the  furniture.  He  soon  had  it  all 
within.  Then  he  announced  that  he  must  leave 
them,  to  go  up  to  the  Square  to  buy  the  supplies  of 
food  they  needed. 

The  two  sisters  had  finished  all  that  was  to  be 
done  in  the  cabin,  and  were  out  in  the  desolate  yard 
waiting  for  Warren  to  return. 

"I  see  'im,"  Amanda  cried.  "He's  comin' 
through  the  broom-sedge.  He's  took  that  way  to 
keep  from  passin'  Abe  Langston's  an'  havin'  to  say 
howdy,    He'll  have  to  git  over  that  or  we'll  never 

284 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

git  along.  He's  got  to  take  his  medicine.  The 
Lord's  hard  on  'im,  but  Jeff  never  was  much  of  a 
Lord's  man.  It's  the  meek  an'  humble  that  the 
Lord  favors,  an'  Jeff  kicks  ag'in'  the  pricks  too  much. 
Nothin'  but  a  strong  coffin  an'  plenty  o'  earth  on 
top  of  it  will  ever  humble  that  man." 

"He  walks  like  he's  bothered  about  something." 
Mrs.  Warren  sighed,  her  slow  gaze  following  her 
approaching  husband's  bowed  form  as  he  trudged 
through  the  thickening  twiHght.  "Do  you  suppose 
they  have  refused  to  credit  him?" 

"I  reckon  not,  for  I  see  a  bag  o'  something  under 
his  arm;  but  he's  upset — you  kin  depend  on  it. 
He  knows  we  are  hungry,  an'  he'd  strike  a  livelier 
gait  than  that  if  he  wasn't  mad  as  Tucker." 

As  Jeff  drew  near  they  moved  forward  to  meet 
him. 

"Did  you  git  anything  to  eat?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know,"  Amanda  said,  with  her  usual  dis- 
regard of  even  the  darkest  of  his  moods. 

It  was  as  if  he  were  going  to  make  no  response; 
but  her  eager  hands  were  on  the  tow  bag  under  his 
arm,  and  he  sullenly  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"Smoked  bacon."  She  winked  cheerfully  at  her 
sister.  "I  smell  it.  Sugar-cured  in  the  bargain. 
Coffee,  too,  already  parched  an'  ground.  I'd  know 
that  a  mile  off  if  the  wind  was  in  the  right  direction. 
I'm  glad  I  put  on  the  kettle." 

Jeff  strode  on  heavily  and  deposited  the  bag  at 
the  door. 

"We've  all  got  to  bunk  in  one  room  for  to-night," 
Amanda  told  him,  as  she  untied  the  bag  and  began 
to  take  out  the  parcels.  "There  is  no  way  fixed  to 
keep  the  cow  an'  calf  apart,  an'  she's  got  to  graze 

28s 


Paul      Rundel 

or  we  can't  have  milk  in  the  mornin',  so  I  shut  the 
calf  up  in  the  other  room.  It  won't  do  no  harm; 
it's  clean  and  as  gentle  as  a  pet  dog." 

"That's  no  way  to  do!"  Jeff  loweringly  protested. 
"A  thing  like  that  would  make  us  the  laughin'- 
stock  of  the  whole  county.  Besides,  do  you  know 
that — "  He  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  then,  as  if 
he  was  thinking  of  something  too  unpleasant  for 
discussion, he  turned  abruptly  away.  The  two  women 
saw  him  walk  out  to  the  well  in  the  yard  and  stand 
still,  his  gaze  on  the  village  lights  in  the  distance. 

"What  do  you  reckon  is  the  matter  with  'im?" 
Addie  inquired,  listlessly. 

' '  Go  to  higher  powers  'an  me  if  you  want  to  know," 
Amanda  retorted,  as  she  proceeded  to  prepare  sup- 
per. "Something  shore  has  rubbed  'im  the  wrong 
way.  He  was  out  o'  sorts  when  he  left  us,  an'  he's 
ready  to  kill  somebody  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  supper  was  on  the  table  and 
Jeff  was  summoned.  He  entered  the  dimly  lighted 
room,  dropped  his  hat  on  a  bed,  and  sat  down  at 
one  end  of  the  table.  He  was  hungry,  as  the  others 
well  knew,  and  yet  he  ate  with  less  apparent  relish 
than  usual.  Amanda  kept  up  an  incessant  flow  of 
half -philosophical  chatter  with  more  or  less  comfort- 
ing intent,  but  no  part  of  it  evoked  comment  from 
the  head  of  the  family. 

Supper  over,  Jeff  rose,  reached  for  his  hat,  and 
was  stalking  out  with  bowed  head  at  the  low  door- 
way, when  Amanda  suddenly  uttered  a  little  scream 
of  astonishment. 

"What's  that  in  your — ain't  that  a  pistol  in  your 
hip-pocket,  Jeff  Warren?"  she  demanded,  while  her 
weaker  sister  stared  in  slow,  childlike  wonder. 

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Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

Impulsively  and  somewhat  guiltily  Warren  slapped 
his  hand  on  his  bulging  pocket  and  turned,  bUnking 
doggedly  at  the  questioner. 

"That's  what  it  is!"  he  answered.  His  tone  was 
sullen  and  defiant. 

"Whar  did  you  get  it?"  Amanda  was  now  on  her 
feet,  leaning  toward  him  in  the  meager  light. 

"I  swapped  my  watch  for  it,"  Jeff  muttered; 
and  he  drew  the  brim  of  his  hat  lower  over  his  burn- 
ing eyes, 

"Your  watch!"  Amanda  cried.  "Why,  what  are 
we  goin'  to  do  for  a  timepiece  now  ?  Besides,  we  didn't 
have  to  go  armed  all  along  that  lonely  mountain 
road;  what  is  the  need  of  a  pistol  here  in  the  edge 
of  town,  among  old  friends  an'  law-abidin'  neigh- 
bors?" 

"That's  my  business,"  Warren  snarled,  and  he 
turned  out  into  the  dark.  "Folks  will  know  it's  my 
business,  too.  You  jest  lie  low  an'  see  if  they  don't. 
I'll  take  care  of  number  one." 

"I  know  how  you'll  take  care  of  number  one," 
Amanda  sneered.  "It  will  be  by  ignorin'  number 
three,  like  you  always  have  done  when  you  get  the 
devil  in  you  as  big  as  the  side  of  a  house.  Right 
now  you  are  just  itchin'  for  a  row  w4th  somebody, 
an'  you  are  goin'  to  have  it  if  I  don't  take  you  in 
hand." 

Warren's  innate  gallantry  checked  the  hot  out- 
burst, the  forerunner  of  which  was  quivering  on 
his  white  lips,  and  without  a  word  he  went  back  to 
the  well  and  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  windlass, 
a  pitiful  symbol  of  human  discontent  outlined 
against  the  star-strewn  slcy. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  put  my  hands  in  dish-water 
2S7 


Paul      R  u  n  d  e 1 

till  my  mind's  at  ease,"  Amanda  said  to  her  sister. 
"Poor  thing!  I  reckon  you  feel  so  bad  about  the 
way  we  are  fixed  that  you  ain't  bothered  about 
Jeff's  fits;  But  it's  different  with  your  sister  Mandy. 
When  you  was  a  young  gal  I  worried  about  whether 
you'd  git  married  or  not.  Later  I  was  bothered 
about  your  first  choice  an'  his  jealous  suspicions. 
Next  I  turned  into  a  wet-nurse;  I  walked  the  floor 
with  your  baby  at  night,  stickin'  splinters  in  my 
feet  at  every  step,  an'  now  I've  got  to  keep  your  last 
investment  from  danglin'  from  the  gallows  like  a 
scarecrow  on  a  pole." 

Together  the  two  women  went  to  the  brooding 
man  at  the  well. 

"What  ails  you,  Jeff?"  the  wife  began,  with  a 
timid  sigh.  "Anybody  can  see  you  are  out  o' 
sorts." 

"Well,  ril  tell  you  what's  the  matter,"  Warren 
fumed.  "If  I'd  knowed  it  sooner  I'd  'a'  left  you 
two  bey  ant  the  mountain  an'  come  on  an'  got  it 
over  with.  I  don't  want  to  disturb  women  with  a 
thing  o'  this  sort." 

"Wayburn's  goin'  to  turn  us  out,  that's  my 
guess,"  Amanda  dropped.  "The  shack  ain't  no 
better'n  a  stable  for  bosses,  but  we  can't  have  even 
that  without  more  cash  than  we've  got." 

"No,  he's  had  one  of  his  old  quarrels  with  some- 
body," Mrs.  Warren  suggested,  despondently. 

"I  hain't  had  one,  but  I'm  gain'  to,"  Jeff  threat- 
ened. "This  State  simply  ain't  wide  enough,  or 
long  enough,  to  hold  me  and  the  dirty  young  pup 
that  left  me  lyin'  in  the  road  for  dead  an'  went  off 
an'  gloated  over  me.  He  was  a  boy  then,  but  he's 
a  man  now,  an'  fully  responsible." 

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Paul     R  Li  n  d  c  1 

"Why,  what  are  you  talkin'  about?"  Amanda's 
inquiring  stare  shifted  excitedly  back  and  forth 
between  her  sister's  startled  face  and  the  sinister 
one  of  her  brother-in-law.  "Is  Paul  alive — have 
you  heard  from  him?" 

"Heard  from  'im?"  Jeff's  white  lip  curled  and 
trembled  Hke  that  of  a  snarling  opossum.  "I 
hain't  heard  from  him  personally  yet,  nor  seed 
'im,  but  he's  back  here  struttin'  aroimd  in  fine 
clothes  with  plenty  o'  money  in  his  pocket,  an' 
sayin'  that — " 

"Oh,  JefT,  oh,  JcfT,  are  you  sure?"  Mrs.  Warren 
had  turned  pale,  and  it  was  as  if  she  were  about 
to  faint.  Amanda  threw  a  strong  arm  about  her 
and  firmly  shook  her.  "Don't  keel  over,"  she 
said,  almost  fiercely.  "I  want  to  know  about  this 
thing  right  now.  All  this  dinky-dinky  talk  about 
shootin'  may  pass  on  some  occasions,  but  when  the 
big  strappin'  hulk  I  work  for  gits  on  a  high  jackass 
an'  talks  about  killin'  my  own  blood-nephew  be- 
cause he's  got  more  clothes  an'  money  than  we  got 
— well,  I'll  be  in  the  game  myself,  that's  the  long 
an'  short  of  it,  I'll  be  in  it  tooth  an'  toe-nail." 

Never  had  Warren's  gallantry  been  swathed  in 
a  blanket  of  such  soaking  dampness.  He  stared  at 
his  verbal  antagonist  with  a  fresh  and  uncurtained 
vision,  and  seemed  unable  to  formulate  a  suitable 
reply. 

"Never  mind  me."  Amanda's  tone  became  dis- 
tinctly conciHatory,  and  she  smiled  faintly:  "I 
won't  kill  you  till  I  git  at  the  facts,  anyway.  I'm 
dyin'  to  know  about  the  boy.     Go  on  an'  tell  us." 

Jeff  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  slowly 
complied.     "He's  back  from  the  West.     He  got  a 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

fine  education,  an'  worked  his  way  up  somehow. 
He's  got  a  job  on  big  pay  managin'  for  Jim  Hoag — 
he's  got  a  hundred  or  more  hands  under  him,  an' 
the  whole'  county's  braggin'  about  'im.  He  rides 
around  from  one  place  to  another  with  his  head 
high  in  the  air,  givin'  orders.  When  he  landed 
here  he  told  some  cock-an'-buU  tale  about  thinkin' 
I  was  underground,  an'  wanted  the  law  to  act,  an' 
the  like,  but  he's  a  liar." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad;  I'm  so  glad!"  Amanda  hugged 
her  stupefied  sister  to  her  breast  impulsively  and 
kissed  the  sallow  brow.  "I  always  thought  thar  was 
come-out  in  that  boy,  an'  now  I  know  it.  I'm  dyin' 
to  see  'im." 

"Well,  he  ain't  dyin'  to  see  you,  or  his  mammy, 
either,  in  the  plight  you  are  in!"  Jeff  hurled  at 
her.  "They  say  he  lives  at  Hoag's,  an'  goes  galH- 
vantin'  about  the  country  with  that  Atlanta  gal, 
Ethel  Mayfield.  He's  mad  because  we  are  back 
here  to  disgrace  him  with  our  dirt  an'  rags.  He's 
the  only  livin'  man  that  ever  gloated  over  me, 
an'  he's  hand  an'  glove  with  my  lifelong  enemy. 
If  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  set  back,  an' — an' — " 

"I  don't  care  whether  you  set  back,  stand  back, 
or  roll  back,"  Amanda's  eyes  rekindled.  "If  you 
tetch  a  hair  o'  that  boy's  head  I'll  pull  every  one 
you  got  out  an'  leave  'em  for  bird's-nests.  It's 
Paul's  prosperity  that's  stickin'  in  your  craw. 
Hand  me  that  pistol!" 

Jeff  swayed  defiantly  backward,  but  she  caught 
his  arm  and  turned  him  round  by  sheer  strength. 
"Give  it  to  me,  I  say,  or  you'll  never  darken  that 
cabin-door.  When  I  give  in  to  you  an'  Addie 
marryin'  after  all  that  slanderous  talk  you  agreed, 

290 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

as  a  man  o'  honor,  to  withdraw  all  charges  ag'in 
that  poor  boy.  You  did  that,  an'  now  stick  a 
cannon  in  the  seat  o'  your  pants  an'  lie  in  wait 
for  'im  like  a  cutthroat  in  the  dark.  Gi'  me  that 
thing!" 

Reluctantly  Warren  complied,  and  stood  silent  as 
Amanda  scrutinized  the  weapon  in  her  hand.  "We 
kin  swap  it  for  meal  an'  bacon,"  she  said.  "Now 
let's  all  go  to  bed.     I'm  plumb  fagged  out." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  following  day.  Ethel 
had  heard  of  the  return  of  Jeff  Warren  and  was 
quite  disturbed.  Since  early  morning  Paul  had 
been  away,  and  Ethel  fancied  that  he  was  unaware 
of  the  arrival  of  the  little  family.  In  many  ways 
she  pitied  Paul,  and  she  gravely  feared  for  his 
safety,  for  there  was  no  mincing  the  fact  that  Jeff 
Warren  was  a  most  dangerous  man,  with  a  quick, 
uncontrollable  temper.  Mrs.  Tilton,  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
Cato,  and  Aunt  Dilly  were  all  discussing  the  situa- 
tion. That  the  two  men  would  meet  was  not  to 
be  doubted;  that  Paul  would  have  to  defend  himself 
or  be  injured  was  regarded  as  a  certainty. 

Ethel  was  at  the  window  of  her  room  just  as  the 
night  began  to  fall,  when  Paul  came  in  at  the  gate, 
and,  with  a  weary  step,  advanced  up  the  walk 
toward  the  house.  Hoag  was  seated  on  the  ve- 
randa, and  Ethel  heard  the  posts  of  his  chair  jar 
the  floor  as  he  rose  and  descended  the  steps.  The 
two  men  met  almost  beneath  her  open  window. 
Ethel  was  aware  that  their  words  might  not  be 
intended  for  other  ears,  and  yet  she  was  chained 
as  by  some  weird  and  ominous  spell  to  the  spot. 
She  dropped  on  her  knees,  leaned  against  the 
window-sill,  and  peered  cautiously  through  the  over- 
hanging vines. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  heard  he  was  here,"  she  caught 
Paul's   reply  to   an  obvious   question,  and  she  was 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

sure  there  was  an  odd,  changed  tone  in  his  voice 
which  seemed  to  have  lost  its  old  hopeful  vitality. 
She  saw  him  take  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  slowly  wipe  his  brow  as  he  stood  with  his  dusk- 
draped  profile  toward  her. 

"Well,  I  just  thought  I'd  put  you  on  your  guard," 
Hoag  was  heard  to  say,  with  an  unction  of  tone 
which  men  of  his  own  type  could  have  fathomed 
better  than  a  delicate,  frightened  woman.  "I'm  sure 
I'd  appreciate  it  to  have  a  friend  of  mine  come  to 
me  at  such  a  ticklish  time.  I  know  you've  got  grit. 
I've  seed  it  put  to  a  test.  That's  why  folks  are 
a-talkin'  at  such  a  rate.  The  opinion  of  one  an'  all 
is  that  what  you  did  once  you  can  an'  will  do 
ag'in." 

Ethel  held  her  breath  to  catch  Paul's  tardy  words. 
His  head  was  lowered  when  he  spoke.  '  *  So  they  think 
I'll  shoot  him  again,  do  they — they  think  that?" 

"You  bet  they  know  you  won't  let  the  skunk 
run  roughshod  over  you,  an'  he's  ready  an'  waitin' 
— bought  'im  a  gun  right  off — looked  all  about  for 
you  to-day,  I'm  told,  an'  some  say  he  hinted  that 
you'd  skipped  clean  out  to  keep  from  facin'  the 
music.  I  haven't  met  him.  I  hain't  no  use  for  the 
puppy,  an'  never  did  have.  You've  got  a  gun, 
haven't  you?" 

"No,  I  haven't  owned  one  since  I  got  back  from 
the  West." 

"You  don't  say — well,  you'd  better  git  one.  I've 
got  three.  You  can  take  your  pick  if  you  want  to, 
but  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  mix  me  up  in  it. 
I  just  offer  it  to  you  as  I  would  to  any  other  man 
in  my  employ." 

"Thank   you."     They  were  moving  toward  the 
293 


Paul     Rundel 

house,  and  the  roof  of  the  veranda  hid  them  from 
the  eyes  of  the  awed  and  frightened  observer. 
Ethel  heard  Paul  uttering  some  unintelligible  words 
in  the  hall  below,  and  then  he  came  up  the  stairs 
and  entered  his  own  room.  She  stood  in  the  center 
of  the  floor,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  He  had 
been  such  a  wonderful  friend  to  her;  under  his 
advice  she  had  soared  to  heights  she  had  never 
reached  before,  and  yet  now  he  himself,  strong  as 
he  had  been  in  her  behalf,  was  in  peril — peril  he 
was  too  brave  to  see.  She  heard  her  uncle's  pon- 
derous step  as  he  strode  through  the  long  hall  to 
the  kitchen,  and  then  it  occurred  to  her  to  pray 
for  guidance.  She  sank  down  on  the  edge  of  her 
bed  and  folded  her  delicate  hands  between  her 
tense  knees.  Her  lips  moved,  but  she  was  not 
conscious  of  the  words  mutely  escaping  her  lips. 
Suddenly  she  sprang  up  and  started  to  the  door, 
for  Paul  had  left  his  room  and  was  going  down 
the  stairs  with  a  firm  and  hurried  stride.  Her 
hand  on  the  door-knob,  she  leaned  out  into  the 
darkened  hall  and  peered  after  him.  She  had  an 
impulse  to  call  to  him,  yet  the  thought  that 
she  had  no  excuse  for  stopping  him  which  would 
not  reveal  the  fact  that  she  had  been  eavesdropping 
checked  both  her  voice  and  movement.  She  heard 
him  crossing  the  veranda  swiftly,  and,  returning  to 
the  window,  she  saw  him  on  the  walk  striding  tow- 
ard the  gate.  Again  she  tried  to  cry  out  to  him, 
and  again  she  failed.  As  he  reached  the  gate  and 
passed  out  into  the  road  she  prayed  that  he  would 
go  toward  the  village  rather  than  toward  the 
cabin  in  which  his  stepfather  lived.  Her  breast 
seemed  to  tiirn  to  stone  the  next  instant,  for  he 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  c  1 

was  taking  the  shortest  cut  toward  the  cabin. 
How  calmly,  fearlessly,  he  moved!  How  erectly  he 
walked,  and  it  was  perhaps  to  his  death!  Ethel 
staggered  back  to  her  bed,  sank  on  it  face  down- 
ward, and  began  to  sob,  began  to  pray  as  only  he 
had  taught  her  to  pray,  with  all  her  young  soul 
bent  to  its  holy  purpose, 

Paul  strode  on  through  the  gloaming.  Overhead 
arched  the  infinite  symbol  of  endlessness,  with  here 
and  there  a  twinkling  gem  of  light.  On  either  side 
of  him  the  meadows  and  fields  lay  sleeping,  damp 
with  rising  dew.  Fireflies  were  flashing  signals  to 
their  fellows;  insects  were  snarling  in  the  trees  and 
grass ;  a  donkey  was  braying  in  the  far  distance ;  dogs 
were  barking. 

As  Paul  approached  Warren's  cabin  the  firelight 
from  within  shone  through  the  open  door  out  upon 
the  bare  ground  in  front.  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
undecided  as  to  how  he  should  make  his  presence 
known — whether  he  should  call  out  from  where  he 
stood,  after  the  manner  of  mountain  folk,  or  ap- 
proach the  threshold  and  rap.  Just  then  a  bulky, 
top-heavy  looking  object  turned  the  comer  of  the 
cabin  and  advanced  to  the  wood-pile  near  by.  It 
was  a  man  carrying  a  bunch  of  fagots  on  his  shoulder. 
He  threw  it  down,  and,  seeing  Paul  for  the  first  time, 
he  drew  himself  erect,  staring  through  the  darkness. 

"Who  goes  thar?"  he  gnmted. 
.  Paul  was  about  to  reply  when  Warren  suddenly 
grasped  the  handle  of  an  ax,  and  swiftly  swinging  it 
to  one  side  as  if  ready  to  strike  a  blow,  he  panted : 
"Oh,  it's  yoii — is  it?  Well,  I've  been  expectin'  you 
all  day.    I  knowed  you'd  hear  I'd  come,  an'  not  lose 

295 


Paul     Run  del 

time.  .Well,  I  hain't  got  no  gun — my  fool  women 
folks  took—" 

"I  haven't  either,  Jeff,"  Paul  laughed,  appeas- 
ingly.  "You've  got  the  best  of  it  this  time;  I'm 
at  your  mercy,  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Turn  about  is 
fair  play,  and  if  you  want  to  you  can  brain  me  with 
that  ax.  I  really  think  I  deserve  it,  Jeff.  I've 
had  seven  years  to  regret  what  I  did,  and  I  don't 
want  to  lose  a  minute  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry — 
sorry  as  ever  a  man  was  in  this  world." 

Silence  fell.  Warren  leaned  on  his  ax-handle 
and  stared  with  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips.  When 
he  finally  spoke  his  breath  hissed  through  his 
teeth. 

"Say,  young  feller,  if  you've  come  here  to  poke  fun 
at  me  I  tell  you  now  you've — " 

"I'm  in  no  mood  for  that,  Jeff,"  Paul  broke  in, 
with  increased  gentleness.  "I've  done  you  a  great 
injury.  I  was  a  silly  boy  at  the  time  and  I've 
sorely  repented.  I've  come  to  beg  your  pardon — 
to  beg  it  as  humbly  as  I  know  how." 

"Good  God!     You — you  say — ^you  mean — " 

"I'm  sorry,  that's  all,  Jeff.  I  want  to  see  my 
mother.  You've  got  more  right  to  her  than  I  have 
now,  after  my  conduct,  but  I  want  to  see  her  and 
ask  her  to  forgive  me,  too.  A  man  has  but  one 
mother,  Jeff,  and  the  time  comes  to  all  men  when  they 
know  what  it  means  to  lose  one.    Is  she  in  the  house  ? " 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Warren  stood 
swaying  like  a  human  tree  touched  in  every  branch, 
twig,  and  leaf  by  clashing  winds  which  had  never  so 
met  before. 

"Why,  I  thought — we  thought — folks  all  thought " 
— ^Warren  dropped  his  ax,  made  a  movement  as  if  to 

296 


Paul     Rundel 

regain  it,  then  drew  his  lank  body  erect,  and  stood 
staring  through  the  gloom. 

"I  know,"  Paul  laughed  softly  and  appealingly, 
"they  think  blood,  and  nothing  but  blood,  can  wash 
out  a  difference  like  ours;  but  there  is  a  better 
way,  Jeff,  and  that  is  through  good-will.  We've 
been  enemies  long  enough.  I  want  to  be  your  friend. 
You've  taken  care  of  my  mother  and  aunt  all  these 
years,  and  I  am  genuinely  grateful  for  it." 

Warren  turned  his  shattered  countenance  aside. 
"I  didn't  look  for  you  to  be  this  way  at  all — at  all,'' 
he  faltered,  huskily.  "I  reckon  when  I  heard  you 
was  back  here  I  got  mad  because  you  was  makin' 
your  way  up  so  fast,  and  I've  been  steadily  goin' 
down.  The  devil  was  in  me,  an'  I  thought  he  was 
in  you,  too.  Lord,  I  never  dreamt  that  you'd  walk 
up  like  this  to  a — a — feller  that — "  Warren  waved 
a  dejected  hand  toward  the  cabin — "that  had 
fetched  your  mammy  to  a  pig-pen  of  a  shack 
right  in  the  neighborhood  whar  you  are  thought  so 
much  of." 

"A  man  doesn't  deserve  to  be  well  thought  of, 
Jeff,  who  considers  himself  better  in  any  way  than 
a  less  fortiinate  fellow-being.  If  you  could  really 
understand  me  you'd  see  that  I  actually  think  more 
of  you  than  if  you  were  well-to-do." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  Warren  sharply  deprecated. 
"That's  beyond  reason.  I  used  to  be  proud.  In 
fact,  I  reckon  that's  what  drawed  me  so  much 
to  your  mother.  I  pitied  her  because  your  daddy 
made  so  little  headway,  but  look  at  me  now.  Lord, 
Lord,  jest  look!  Why,  he  was  a  king  beside  me. 
I've  plumb  lost  my  grip." 

"I  see — I  know  what  you  mean,"  Paul  said,  sym- 
20  297 


Paul     Rundel 

pathetically,  "but  you  are  going  to  get  it  back, 
Jeff,  and  I'm  going  to  do  all  I  can  to  help.  Is  my 
mother  in  the  house?" 

"No;  the  calf  got  to  the  cow,  an'  the  two  wandered 
off  somewhar.  Your  ma  is  down  in  the  meadow 
close  to  the  swamp  tryin'  to  find  'em." 

"And  my  aunt?" 

"Oh,  Mandy— why,  you  see"— Jeff  appeared  to 
be  embarrassed  anew — "you  see,  Mrs.  Tobe  Wil- 
liams, who  lives  over  in  town,  driv'  by  this  evenin' 
about  an  hour  by  sun,  and — and  said  she'd  had  so 
much  trouble  gettin'  a  woman  to — to  cook  for  her 
big  family  o'  children  that,  if  Mandy  wouldn't  mind 
helpin'  her  out  in  a  pinch,  she  would  pay  well 
for  it.  I  put  my  foot  down  ag'in  it,  but  Mandy 
wouldn't  listen  to  reason,  an'  got  in  the  buggy  and 
went.  It  seemed  to  me  that  was  my  last  straw. 
If  killin'  myself  would  aid  anybody  the  least  bit 
I'd  gladly—" 

Warren's  voice  broke,  and  he  stood  quivering 
from  head  to  foot  in  the  effort  to  control  his  emotion. 
Paul  advanced  and  extended  his  hand.  "We  must 
be  friends,  Jeff,"  he  said,  with  feeling.  "Between 
us,  we  can  make  both  of  them  happy." 

"Between  us!    You  say — " 

Warren  clasped  the  outstretched  hand  and  clung 
to  it  as  if  for  some  sort  of  support  in  the  strange 
new  storm  which  was  tossing  him  as  he  had  never 
been  tossed  before. 

"I  can't  make  you  out,  Paul,"  he  fairly  sobbed; 
"by  God,  I  can't!  Seems  like  you  are  foolin',  an' 
then  ag'in  I  know  you  ain't — yes,  I  know  yon  ain't!" 

"No,  I'm  in  earnest,"  Paul  returned.  "Do  you 
think  my  mother  will  be  back  soon?" 


Paul     Rundel 

"Yes;  but  you  stay  here  an'  let  me  step  down 
whar  she's  at,"  Warren  proposed,  considerately. 
"She  ain't  so  well — in  fact,  she  might  get  upset  if — 
if  she  saw  you  all  of  a  sudden.  I'll  run  down  an' — 
an'  tell  her  you  are  friendly.  That'll  be  the  main 
thing.  She's  been  afraid  you  an'  me  would  act 
the  fool  ag'in.  She  will  be  relieved  and  astonished. 
You  wait  here.     I'll  go  tell  'er." 

When  Warren  had  stalked  away  in  the  gloom 
Paul  went  to  the  cabin-door  and  glanced  within. 
The  pine-knots  burning  under  the  open  fire  of  logs, 
the  ends  of  which  rested  on  stones,  lighted  the 
poor  room,  from  which  musty  odors  emerged,  and 
he  shuddered  and  turned  away.  Passing  around 
the  cabin,  he  approached  the  neat  cottage  near  by. 
He  went  up  on  the  little  vine-clad  porch  and  peered 
through  the  windows  and  side-lights  of  the  door. 
Putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  took  out  a  key, 
and,  thrusting  it  into  the  lock,  he  opened  the  door 
and  entered.  Striking  a  match,  he  held  it  above 
his  head  and  went  into  all  the  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WARREN  strode  down  the  narrow  winding  path 
through  the  meadow.  He  crossed  a  swift- 
flowing  creek  on  a  narrow,  sagging  foot-log  and  went 
on  toward  the  swamp.  When  he  was  some  distance 
from  the  cabin  he  descried,  beyond  a  patch  of  black- 
berry vines  and  a  morass  full  of  pond-liHes  and 
bulrushes,  the  blurred  outHnes  of  a  solitary  figure. 
Then  an  unexpected  sound  fell  upon  his  ears.  It 
was  a  piping,  uncertain  voice  endeavoring  to  run 
the  scale  after  the  manner  of  the  exercises  in  a 
rural  singing-class.  It  was  Mrs.  Warren.-  She  was 
strolling  toward  him,  beating  time  with  a.  stiff  index- 
finger  held  out  before  her. 

' ' That's  her ! "  Jeff  mused.  ' ' She'll  sing  a  different 
tune  when  I  tell  her  what  I  know.  By  gum,  the 
boy  certainly  floored  me!  Who  would  'a'  thought 
it?    Not  me,  the  Lord  knows." 

Skirting  the  boggy  ground  by  passing  along  a 
little  rise  where  velvety  mullein-stalks  grew  in 
profusion,  Jeff  came  face  to  face  with  his  wife. 
With  a  crude  instinct  for  dramatic  surprise,  he 
stood  still  without  speaking  and  allowed  her  to 
approach  closer  to  him.  Listlessly  intoning  her 
scale  and  cutting  the  half  darkness  with  her  finger, 
she  stopped  with  a  start.  Then,  recognizing  him, 
she  laughed,  and  advanced  confidently. 

"You  caught  me,"  she  said,  abashed.  "I  was 
jest   wonderin'   if   me'n   you'd   ever   sing   another 

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Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  I 

note.  I  declare  my  voice  is  all  out  o'  whack.  Some 
say,  losin'  the  teeth  spoils  a  voice.  Well,  we  ain't 
goin'  out  to  meetin',  noway,  I  reckon,  an'  so  we 
won't  be  asked  to  sing  by  the  old  crowd.  I  hain't 
got  a  thing  fit  to  put  on,  an'  they  just  sha'n't  poke 
■fun  at  my  looks." 

"I  thought  you  hit  that  top-note  purty  clear  just 
now,"  he  said,  evasively.  He  was  wondering  how 
he  could  smoothly  explain  the  thing  which  had  so 
startlingly  upset  all  his  calculations,  and  in  which 
she  was  so  soon  to  participate. 

"I  couldn't  git  the  cow  an'  calf,"  she  listlessly 
informed  him.  "The  fool  beasts  went  clean  over  the 
hill.  Bob  Triggs  saw  'em.  He  said  they  couldn't 
cross  the  river,  an'  we  can  drive  'em  up  to-morrow. 
But  you  don't  get  no  milk  to-night.  Say,  Jeff,  just 
for  the  fun  of  it,  let's  try  our  old  brag  duet.  If  we 
kept  at  it  in  the  evenin'  for  a  few  days  we  might 
sorter  get  back  into  harness." 

"I  don't  want  to  sing  no  more,  never  no  more," 
he  answered,  and  something  in  the  ring  of  his  voice 
riveted  her  attention.  She  suddenly  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  forced  him  to  look  at  her. 

"Jeff,  what's  the  matter?"  she  demanded,  the 
comers  of  her  sad  mouth  drooping  in  dire  expecta- 
tion. "Some'n  has  happened.  I  know  it.  You 
come  to  meet  me  to  let  me  know.  Oh,  Lord,  Lord! 
you  an'  Paul  hain't  met — " 

"Yes,  but  no  harm  was  done,"  he  said,  unsteadily. 
•Tve  seed  'im.  He  come  to  the  cabin  just  now 
of  his  own  accord.  He — he  wasn't  lookin'  for  trouble ; 
in  fact,  he  talked  nice.  I  never  was  so  astonished 
since  I  was  bom.  He — well,  we  shook  hands  an' 
made  friends.     I  can't  tell  you — I  don't  know  ex- 

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Paul     Rundel 

actly  how  to  explain  it,  but  he's  changed  a  powerful 
sight.'  Nothin'  like  he  used  to  be — don't  talk  the 
same — more  like  a  lawyer,  or  a  judge,  or  a  high-up 
professor.-  Got  a  straight  way  about  'im,  an'  lots 
o'  friendly  feelin',  an'  even  pity.  He's  waitin'  up 
thar  at  the  shack  for  you." 

"For  mef    For  meV' 

"Yes,  he  wants  you,  an'  I  told  'im  if  he'd  stay 
I'd  come  down  an'  hvirry  you  up." 

The  woman's  scant  color  diminished.  Her  eyes 
caught  and  reflected  the  meager  light  of  the  stars. 
Her  thin  breast  shook  under  suppressed  agitation. 
Her  lips  moved  mutely.  She  twisted  her  bony  fin- 
gers together  and  remained  silent. 

"You'd  better  come  on,"  Warren  urged,  gently. 
"It  won't  do  to  hold  hard  feelin's  after  a  feller  has 
put  himself  out  to  come  forward  like  a  man  an' — " 

"I  ain't  goin'  a  step!"  Mrs.  Warren  blurted  out 
in  a  sob  of  bewildered  protest.  "I — I  don't  want  to 
see  'im  ever  ag'in!  I  ain't  goin'  up  there.  Tell  'im 
to  go  away.  We  ain't  his  sort.  He's  belittlin' 
himself  to  come  from  that  fine  house  up  there  an' 
them  fine  folks  to  our  dirty  shack  just  because  I 
am — am — ^his  mother." 

"Come  on,  come  on,  don't  begin  that!"  Warren 
was  at  the  end  of  his  resources.  He  deliberated  for 
a  moment,  then  caught  his  wife  by  the  arm  and 
attempted  to  draw  her  forward,  but  with  a  low 
cry  she  sank  to  the  ground  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  lap.  He  stood  over  her,  his  gaze  sweeping 
back  to  the  cabin  in  the  distance. 

"Come  on — what  will  he  think?"  Warren  pleaded, 
in  a  bewildered  tone.  "I  don't  think  I'd — I'd 
hurt  his  feelin's  after — after — " 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"I  don't  care  what  he  thinks  or  does"  surged 
up  from  the  submerged  lips.  "I'll  not  go  a  step 
till  he's  gone." 

"Well,  I've  done  all  I  can,"  Warren  sighed.  "But 
I'll  have  to  make  some  excuse." 

Trudging  back  to  the  cabin,  he  met  Paul  advanc- 
ing eagerly  toward  him. 

"Couldn't  you  find  her?"  the  young  man  in- 
quired, anxiously. 

' '  Yes,  I  found  her. ' '  Warren  pointed  to  the  swamp 
with  a  jerky  sweep  of  his  rheumatic  arm.  "I  told 
'er,  too;  but  she  wouldn't  budge  a  step.  She's 
ashamed.  If  you  knowed  everything,  you'd  under- 
stand how  she  feels.  I'm  dead  sure  she  don't 
harbor  a  speck  o'  ill-will.  She's  a  changed  woman, 
Paul  Rundel.  She  ain't  the  creature  you  left.  I 
never  give  'er  no  child,  an'  it  looks  like  she's  gone 
back  in  her  mind  to  your  baby  days,  an'  she  feels 
Hke  she  didn't  do  her  full  duty.  I've  ketched  her 
many  a  time  huggin'  little  youngsters,  an'  I  knowed 
what  that  meant.  She  thought  you  was  dead  tiU 
yesterday,  and  of  course  you  can  see  how — " 

"I  think  I'll  walk  down  there,"  Paul  said,  his  face 
turned  toward  the  swamp.  "I  must  see  her  to- 
night." 

"Well,  maybe  you'd  better,"  Warren  acquiesced. 
"As  soon  as  she  sees  how — how  well-disposed  an' 
friendly  you  are  I  reckon  she'll  act  different.  I 
don't  know,  but  I  say  I  reckon  she  will." 

As  Paul  neared  the  edge  of  the  swamp  he  came 
upon  his  mother  standing  near  a  clump  of  sassafras 
bushes.  Her  face  was  turned  from  him,  and,  as 
the  thick  grass  muffled  his  step,  she  was  unaware 
of  his  approach. 

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Paul     Rundel 

"O  Lord,  show  me  what  to  do!"  she  was  pray- 
ing in' tones  which  came  distinctly  to  him  on  the 
still  air.     "Oh,  show  me — show  me!" 

"Mother!"  he  cried  out,  and  even  in  the  vague 
Hght  he  saw  her  start,  and  gaze  at  him  in  actual 
fear.  Then  she  averted  her  face,  and  he  saw  her 
swaying  as  if  about  to  fall.  Springing  to  her  side, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  drew  her  frail  body 
against  his  strong  breast.  In  the  desperate  effort 
to  avoid  his  eyes  she  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
He  could  not  remember  ever  having  kissed  her,  or 
having  been  caressed  by  her,  and  yet  he  kissed  now 
as  naturally  and  tenderly  as  if  he  had  fondled  her 
all  his  life. 

"Don't,  don't!"  she  sobbed,  yet  there  was  a 
blended  note  of  surprise  and  boundless  delight  in 
her  opposition.  Presently  she  struggled  from  his 
embrace  and  stood  a  foot  or  two  away,  now  gaz- 
ing at  him  in  slow  wonder  while  he  took  in  her 
miserable  physical  aspect,  the  consequence  of  years 
of  toil,  poverty,  and  lack  of  proper  nourishment. 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  again,  mother?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  she  stammered, 
piteously.  "I  thought  you'd  try  to  kill  me  an' 
Jeff  on  sight.  We  heard  that's  what  you  come 
back  for." 

"I  came  back  to  do  my  duty  to  God,  to  the  law 
of  the  land,  to  you  and  every  one.  Mother,  I  am 
older  and  wiser  now.  Hard  experience  has  opened 
my  eyes  and  given  me  a  clearer  knowledge  of  right 
and  wrong.  We  can't  get  away  from  duty.  You 
are  my  mother,  and  a  man  owes  his  very  life  and  soul 
to  his  mother." 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"But  not  to  me,  not  to  7ne,"  she  protested,  fiercely. 
"I  know  what  I  done,  an'  how  inhuman  I  acted 
toward  you  when  I  was  so  silly  an'  giddy,  when 
you  needed  a  mother's  love  an'  care.  You  ought 
not  to  notice  me  in  the  road.  You've  riz,  an'  amount 
to  some'n,  an'  me  an' — an'  Jeff  would  be  mill-rocks 
about  your  neck.    We  are  jest  scabs — human  scabs ! " 

"Listen,  mother,"  he  broke  in,  passionately. 
"No  words  can  describe  my  happiness.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  very  kingdom  of  Heaven  is  here  among 
these  old  hills  and  mountains,  and  you  gave  it  all 
to  me,  for  you  are  responsible  for  my  very  being. 
But  for  you  I'd  never  have  existed.  I'll  show  you 
what  I  mean,  and  then  you  will  understand  that 
poverty  of  the  body  can  only  increase  the  wealth 
of  the  soul." 

"But — but  we  arc  in  such  a  disgraceful  plight," 
she  faltered.  "You  saw  that  cabin;  you  see  my 
rags  an'  noticed  Jeff's  looks.  You  know  what  folks 
that  used  to  know  us  will  say  an'  think.  We  thought 
we  was  so  smart.  We  was  goin'  to  roll  in  money 
an'  fine  things  an'  prove  that  we  knowed  what  we 
was  about,  but  misfortune  after  misfortune  piled 
on  us,  till — " 

"That's  all  to  end,"  Paul  said,  with  firmness. 
"Do  you  know  what  I  did  to-day?  As  soon  as  I 
heard  that  Maybum  had  put  you  in  that  dirty  hut 
I  rode  over  to  his  home  and  rented  the  cottage  next 
door  for  you,  and  made  a  better  all-round  contract 
for  Jeff — a  contract  under  which  he  can  easily  earn 
money." 

"You — you  say?"  she  gasped.  She  laid  both  her 
thin  hands  on  his  arms  and  flashed  a  hungry  stare 
into  his  face.     "You  say  you  rented  that  cottage?" 

305 


Paul     Rundel 

"Yes,  here  is  the  key,"  he  answered,  putting  it 
into  her  hand.  "You  can  move  in  to-night  if  you 
wish,  but  I  wouldn't  till  to-morrow  if  I  were  you, 
for  I  have  bought  a  complete  outfit  of  new  furniture 
in  town  and  it  will  be  out  early  in  the  morning." 

"Oh,  Paul,  Paul — my  boy,  my  baby!"  she  was 
weeping  now.  Violent  sobs  shook  her  frail  form 
from  head  to  foot.  Again  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms,  and  stroked  back  her  thin  hair  from  her 
wrinkled  brow.  "And  that  is  not  all,  mother  dear," 
he  continued.  "You've  waited  long  enough  for  the 
comforts  and  things  you  love.  I  shall  supply  you 
with  everything — food,  clothing,  and  anything  else 
you  want.  I  am  going  to  make  you  three  happy. 
I  am  able  to  do  it,  and  it  will  be  the  joy  of  my  life." 

She  slowly  dried  her  tears  on  the  skirt  of  her  dress. 
She  looked  at  him,  and  a  glad,  childlike  smile  broke 
over  her  face  as  he  led  her  homeward. 

"It  all  seems  like  a  pretty  dream,"  she  muttered. 
"I'm  afraid  I'll  wake  in  a  minute." 

"Life  ought  to  be  that  way  always,"  he  said. 
"If  it  isn't  beautiful  it  is  our  fault.  If  anything 
goes  wrong  with  us  it  is  because  we  are  out  of  har- 
mony with  the  laws  of  the  universe,  which  are  per- 
fect. It  is  never  the  universe  that  is  wrong,  but 
only  our  blind  notion  of  it." 

"But,  oh,  Paul — "  She  was  not  capable  of  rising 
to  his  philosophy,  and  she  paused  and  drew  herself 
sorrowfully  from  his  arm.  "You  are  doing  all 
this,  but  I  know  how  most  folks  look  at  things. 
They  say — some  do — that — that  you  are  goin'  with 
Ethel  Mayfield,  an'  her  folks  are  proud  an'  well 
off.  They  are  not  the  same  sort  of  stock  as  me  an' 
Jeff,  and  if  you  tie  yourself  to  us,  why,  may  be  she — " 

306 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

An  expression  of  inner  pain  rose  to  the  surface  of 
his  face.  "People  are  apt  to  make  mistakes,"  he 
said,  awlcwardly,  and  he  forced  a  little  misleading 
laugh.  "It  is  true  that  I  have  driven  out  with  her 
several  times,  but  it  was  only  because  she  needed 
an  escort  and  her  mother  wished  it.  She  and  I 
understand  each  other,  in  a  friendly  way,  but  that 
is  all." 

"So  thar  is  nothin'  in  that?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  Mother,  I" —  his  voice  caught 
suddenly,  and  he  cleared  his  throat — "I  am  not 
really  a  marrying  man.  Marriage  seems  to  be  the 
happy  fate  of  some  fellows,  but  I  am  an  exception. 
I  have  a  great  work  before  me — a  sort  of  duty,  as 
I  see  it — and  these  mountains  are  the  best  field  on 
earth." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  happy  I  hardly  know  what  to  do." 
Her  face  was  fairly  glowing.  "This  thing  will 
tickle  Jeff  an'  Mandy  to  death.  I  am  glad  you 
made  up  with  Jeff.  He's  all  right,  Paul.  He  means 
well.     He's  just  been  unlucky,  that  is  all." 

"Yes,  he  is  all  right,"  Paul  agreed,  "and  things 
will  run  more  smoothly  with  him  from  now  on." 

They  were  nearing  the  cabin.  They  saw  Warren 
in  front  of  the  door,  a  bowed,  sentinel-like  figure 
in  the  red  light  of  the  fire  within.  His  face  was 
toward  them  as  they  approached,  but  he  made  no 
movement.  His  wife  quickened  her  step,  and  going 
ahead  of  her  son  she  took  her  husband's  hands. 

"Jeff,  Jeff ! "  she  was  heard  to  say,  and  Paul  caught 
the  words,  "cottage,"  "furniture,"  and  "oh,  ain't 
it  glorious?" 

Warren  said  nothing,  but  Paul  heard  him  sigh. 
He    pressed    his    wife's   hands    spasmodically    and 

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Paul     Rundel 

then  .dropped  them.  Firmly  he  advanced  to  meet 
his  stepson,  and  paused  in  front  of  him. 

"The  Lord  ought  to  have  let  your  shot  go  deeper 
that  night,  Paul,"  he  gulped,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  his  eyes  and  voice  were  full  of  tears. 

"The  Lord  caught  that  shot  in  His  hand,  Jeff," 
Paul  answered.  "He  saved  us  both,  and  we  are 
wiser  now!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AS  Paul  walked  homeward  a  wave  of  transcen- 
i\  dental  ecstasy  fairly  lifted  him  from  the  ground. 
The  stars  and  all  space  seemed  his.  He  laughed; 
he  sang;  he  whistled;  a  prayer  of  mystic  delight 
rippled  from  his  hps. 

He  was  drawing  near  the  gate  to  Hoag's  grounds 
when  he  noticed  a  man  on  a  mule  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  The  rider's  short  legs  swung  back  and 
forth  from  the  plodding  animal's  flanks  like  pen- 
dulums, but  his  face  was  toward  the  village  and 
Paul  did  not  recognize  him.  Presently,  however, 
when  the  gate  was  reached  the  rider  was  heard  to 
cry  "Whoa!"  and  Paul  knew  the  voice.  It  was 
that  of  Tye,  the  shoemaker. 

"How  are  you,  Uncle  Si?"  Paul  quickened  his 
step  and  approached  just  as  the  old  man  was  about 
to  dismount. 

"Oh!" — the  cobbler  settled  back  in  his  saddle — 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I've  been  over  the  moun- 
tain deliverin'  a  big  raft  o'  work.  I  shod  a  whole 
family — two  grown-ups  an'  ten  children.  I  want 
to  see  you,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  hitch  an'  go  to  the 
house." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Paul  smiled  easily.  "Like  all  the 
rest,  you  want  to  warn  me  to  look  out  for  JefT 
Warren." 

' '  Not  a  bit  of  it — you  are  away  off ! "  T}-e  stroked 
his  short   beard   with   the  fingers  which   held  his 

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Paul     Rundel 

riding-switch  and  grinned  confidently.  "That  will 
take  care  of  itself.  I  don't  have  to  be  told  what  a 
feller  with  your  Hght  will  do.  I'll  bet  a  dollar  to 
a  ginger-cake  that  you've  been  to  see  'em  already, 
an'  you  didn't  act  the  fool,  neither." 

With  a  laugh  Paul  admitted  it.  "I  had  a  narrow 
escape,"  he  added.  "Jeff  wanted  to  brain  me  on 
the  spot  with  an  ax." 

"But  you  bet  he  didn't,"  Silas  chuckled,  "an' 
I'll  lay  he's  lookin'  at  things  in  a  brighter  hght  than 
ever  fell  across  his  path  before.  But  I've  come  to 
see  you  about  business — strict  earthly  business,  an' 
it's  your  business,  not  mine.  Paul,  you've  heard 
of  Theodore  Doran  an'  the  big  cotton-factory  he's 
just  built  at  Chester?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Paul  returned.  "Some  of  my  men 
have  gone  over  there  to  work." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?  Doran  is  stoppin'  at 
Kerr's  Hotel,  buyin'  up  cotton  to  run  on  next  fall, 
an'  this  momin'  he  come  in  my  shop  an'  took  a  seat. 
You  see,  I  used  to  know  him  an'  his  folks  powerful 
well.  He  was  in  a  Sunday-school  class  of  mine, 
along  with  three  other  lads,  away  back  in  the 
seventies,  when  he  was  a  tow-headed  scrub  of  a  boy 
that  nobody  ever  thought  would  get  rich,  an'  so  I 
reckon  he's  purty  free  with  me  in  confidential 
matters.  Well,  he  set  in  to  chat  tin'  in  a  round- 
about way,  an'  it  wasn't  long  before  I  took  notice 
that  the  talk  always  somehow  got  back  to  you  an' 
your  expert  management  of  Hoag's  affairs.  Whar 
I  fust  began  to  smell  a  rat  was  when  he  said  he'd 
been  to  every  plant  an'  farm  of  Hoag's  an'  taken 
a  look  at  'em.  Then  what  do  you  reckon  he  said? 
He  said  he  had  looked  high  an'  low  for  a  man  to  help 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

'im  run  the  big  isLCtory,  but  hadn't  found  the  right 
chap.  Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  from  all  he 
had  seed  an'  heard  you  was  the  one  he  was  lookin' 
for.  He  knowed  me  an'  you  was  close  friends,  an' 
so  he  bantered  me  to  find  out  if  I  thought  you'd 
consider  a  change.  I  told  'im  I  didn't  know;  but, 
la  me!  if  I  didn't  grease  the  wheels  o'  your  cart  no 
man  in  Georgia  could.  I  said  a  lot,  but  he  had  heard 
more  than  I  could  tell  'im  in  a  month  o'  Sundays. 
He  said  what  he  wanted  was  a  feller  who  he  knowed 
was  honest  to  the  core,  an'  he  was  sure  he  could 
sleep  sound  with  a  man  at  the  helm  that  had  come 
back  here,  like  you  did,  as  a  bare  matter  of  principle." 

"I  am  afraid  you  both  are  thinking  entirely  too 
well  of  me,"  Paul  faltered,  "but  I  am  glad  3'ou 
wanted  to  help  me  along." 

"Well,"  Tye  continued,  "the  upshot  of  the  talk 
was  that  Doran  didn't  want  no  mix-up  with  Jim 
Hoag  over  tryin'  to  hire  a  man  o'  his,  an'  he  asked 
me,  as  your  friend,  to  sort  o'  sound  you.  He  says 
he's  willin'  to  pay  a  big  price  for  your  services,  an' 
he  thinks  you  will  take  an  interest  in  the  work.  It 
is  to  be  a  model  mill.  They  have  built  comfortable 
cottages  for  the  workers,  with  a  nice  garden  tacked 
onto  each  one,  an'  they  don't  intend  to  employ  little 
children.  Paul,  it  is  a  fine  job — there  is  no  better 
anywhar.  I  told  'im  I  didn't  think  you  was  bound 
to  any  written  contract  to  Hoag,  an'  Doran  said  he 
was  sure  you  wasn't,  because  Hoag  wouldn't  obligate 
hisse'f  to  nobody — even  a  good  man." 

"No,  I  am  not  bound  to  him,"  Paul  said,  "and I 
am  just  a  little  bit  afraid  he  will  not  approve  of 
something  I  am  going  to  do.  I  have  decided  to 
help  Jeff  Warren  and  my  mother." 

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Paul     Rundel 

"I  see."  Tye  thrust  his  stubby  fingers  through 
the  bristHng  mane  of  his  mule,  and  bent  down  re- 
flectively, "No,  that  will  make  'im  as  mad  as  a 
wet  hen.  He  hates  JefE  with  all  the  puny  soul  that's 
in  him.  Paul,  take  my  advice.  Doran  will  be  at  the 
hotel  to-morrow  an'  wants  to  see  you.  Go  have  a 
talk  with  him." 

"It  is  plainly  my  duty,"  Paul  answered,  with 
conviction.  "There  are  certain  expenses  I  have  to 
meet,  and  I  must  sell  my  services  for  all  they  are 
worth." 

"Well,  that's  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about." 
Tye  thrust  his  heels  into  the  mule's  flanks,  shook 
the  reins,  clucked  through  his  gashed  teeth,  and 
started  homeward.  "Good  night;  you  know  I  wish 
you  well." 

Paul  entered  the  gate  and  started  up  the  walk 
toward  the  house.  As  he  drew  near  the  steps  he 
saw  a  shadowy  form  emerge  from  the  darkened 
doorway,  move  across  the  veranda,  softly  descend 
to  the  ground,  and  noiselessly  glide  toward  him. 
It  was  Ethel.  Her  head  was  enveloped  in  a  light 
lace  shawl  held  close  at  her  chin,  and  her  sweet  face 
showed  pale  and  rigid  through  the  opening. 

"Oh,  Paul — "  she  began,  but  her  timid  voice 
trailed  away  into  silence,  and  she  stood  staring  at 
him,  a  fathomless  anxiety  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  in  bed  long  ago,"  he 
said,  in  surprise.  "Has  anything  happened — gone 
wrong?" 

"No,  no,"  she  ejaculated;  "but  you — you,  Paul — " 

Again  her  power  of  utterance  forsook  her,  and 
she  stood  before  him  with  downcast  eyes.     The 

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Paul      1<  Li  n  d  e  1 

hand  holding  the  shawl  was  quivering  visibly;  there 
was  a  flare  of  burning  suspense  beneath  her  eyelids. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  regretfully.  "Your  grief  has 
got  the  upper  hand  again.  You  can't  fully  master 
it  yet.  It  may  be  that  way  for  some  time,  but  you 
must  keep  trying  to  view  it  right,  for  it  is  right, 
Ethel.  I  am  more  positive  of  it  to-night  than  ever 
before." 

"It  is  not  that — oh,  it  isn't  that!"  Ethel  cried. 
"It  is  you,  Paul — you  and — " 

"I  really  don't  understand,"  he  said,  bewildered. 
"You  say  that  I—" 

She  released  her  hold  on  the  shawl  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "I  must  own  the  truth,"  she 
began,  tremulously,  her  voice  steadying  bravely  as 
she  hurried  on.  "I  listened  to  what  you  and  my 
uncle  said  when  you  got  home  to-night.  You  were 
beneath  my  window  and  I  could  not  resist  it." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  A  light  broke  on  him.  "And  you 
thought—" 

"You  went  to  your  room  and  then  hurried  away 
— you  went  straight  toward  Jeff  Warren's  cabin, 
and—" 

"And  you  counted  on  hearing  gunshots,"  he 
laughed,  reassuringly.  "Well,  there  were  none.  I 
owed  him  an  apology  and  I  made  it.  We  are  friends 
now,  and  I  have  my  mother  back." 

"Oh,  Paul,  was  that  all?"  He  could  almost  see 
her  face  glow  in  the  darkness.  "I  was  afraid — oh, 
I  was  afraid  that  all  your  troubles  were  going  to 
begin  over  again!" 

She  was  silent  after  that.     His  gentle  words  of 
reassurance  seemed  to  fall  on  closed  ears.    She  stood 
staring  up  at  the  window  of  her  room  for  several 
21  313 


Paul     Rundel 

minutes,  and  then  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  was 
quite  incomprehensible  to  him:  "You  think  I  am 
silly — I  know  you  do,  but  worrying  over  Jennie's 
death  has — has  really  unstrung  me.  I  am  not 
myself.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  doing  or  saying. 
I  give  myself  up  to  terrible  fancies.  Good  night, 
Paul." 

He  remained  on  the  lawn  after  she  had  disappeared. 
He  heard  her  slow  step  on  the  stair.  His  ecstatic 
spirit-dream  was  over.  He  sank  on  a  rustic  seat 
and  bowed  his  head  to  his  open  hands.  She  was  no 
dear  to  him  and  yet  so  absolutely  unattainable! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  next  afternoon,  following  a  conference  with 
the  owner  of  the  cotton-mill,  which  took 
place  at  Tye's  shop,  Paul  returned  home.  As  he 
was  about  to  ascend  the  stairs  to  his  room  he  met 
Mrs.  Tilton  in  the  hall. 

"Have  you  seen  Jim?"  she  inquired;  and  when 
he  had  answered  in  the  negative  she  added:  "He 
was  asking  whar  you  was  at.  I  thought  I'd  sort  o' 
warn  you  to  look  out  for  him;  he  ain't  in  the  best 
of  tempers.  Some'n's  gone  crooked  somewhar  or 
other.  He  actually  cussed  me  just  now  an'  slapped 
little  Jack  for  the  first  time  in  over  a  year.  The 
child  was  just  comin'  to  git  in  his  lap,  an'  he's  been 
cryin'  as  if  his  heart  was  broke  ever  since." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Hoag?"  Paul  asked. 

"He's  down  at  the  tannery  shippin'  some  leather." 

There  were  still  several  minutes  to  spare  before 
supper-time,  and  Paul  decided  to  seek  his  employer 
at  once,  so  he  turned  down  to  the  tannery.  As  he 
approached  the  warehouse  the  rumble  of  the  iron 
truck-wheels  on  the  heavy  floor  reached  him,  and 
above  the  din  he  heard  Hoag's  gruff  voice  giving 
commands  to  two  negro  laborers.  Stepping  upon 
the  platform,  Paul  saw  his  employer  near  the  wide 
sHding  door  just  within  the  dust-filled  room,  and  he 
approached  him. 

"Anything  I  can  do?"  he  asked,  politely. 

"Do!     Does  it  look  like  thar's  anything  to  do?" 

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Paul     Rundel 

Hoag  hurled  the  words  at  him,  his  eyes  flashing 
beneath  beetling  brows,  his  lip  curled  and  drawn 
tight  across  tobacco-stained  teeth. 

Paul  stared  at  him  unflinchingly,  "Shipments 
have  always  been  made  in  the  morning,"  he  said, 
calmly.  He  drew  a  note-book  from  his  pocket  and 
opened  it.  "I  had  this  down  for  the  first  thing 
to-morrow." 

"It  ain't  what  you  have  down,  but  what  I  want 
done,  when  an'  how  I  like  it.  I  couldn't  find  you, 
so  I  had  to  do  it  myself." 

"We  won't  talk  about  that  at  all,"  Paui  retorted, 
drawn  into  anger  he  was  trying  hard  to  control. 
"I  know  I  earn  my  salary,  and  I'll  be  treated 
like  an  intelligent  human  being  while  I  am  at 
work  or  I'll  quit.  Do  you  understand  that?  I'll 
quit!" 

"Damn  your  soul" — Hoag  looked  about  on  the 
floor  as  if  for  something  with  which  to  strike  the 
speaker  to  earth — "do  you  mean  to  stand  thar  an' 
give  me  any  of  your  jaw?" 

"Not  any  more  than  you  need  to  make  you  act 
like  a  man."  Paul  bent  a  steady  and  fearless  gaze 
on  him  that  made  him  flinch  and  drop  his  eyes. 
But  Hoag  was  not  subdued.  He  blinked  sullenly  for 
a  moment,  swore  at  a  negro  who  was  staggering 
past  under  an  overloaded  truck,  followed  him  to  the 
wagon  at  the  door,  where  he  stood,  a  mere  husk  of 
a  man  buffeted  by  fierce  inner  storms.  Presently  he 
came  back  to  Paul;  he  had  unconsciously  crushed 
the  order  for  the  leather  in  his  hand  and  broken 
the  tip  of  his  pencil. 

"Thar's  no  use  beatin'  about  the  bush,"  he  began, 
in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he  was  now  more  sure 

316 


Paul     Rundel 

of  his  ground.  "I'm  goin'  to  give  you  the  truth 
straight  from  the  shoulder.  An'  if  you  don't  hke  it 
you  kin  lump  it."  Another  loaded  truck  was  pass- 
ing and  Hoag  stopped  it.  He  made  a  flurried  effort 
to  count  the  rolls,  and  failing  to  do  so,  he  waved 
his  hand  impatiently,  swore  at  the  man,  and  the 
truck  was  trundled  on  to  the  door. 

"You  needn't  waste  time  getting  to  it,"  Paul 
began  firmly.  "I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you. 
You've  made  up  your  mind  that  slavery  is  not  yet 
over.  You've  heard  about  what  I  am  doing  for 
my  mother,  and — " 

"That's  it,"  Hoag's  dead  face  flared.  "I  may  as 
well  tell  you  the  truth  an'  be  done  with  it.  Not  a 
dollar — not  one  dollar  of  my  money  shall  go  to  a 
low-lived,  dirt-eatin'  skunk  like  Jeff  Warren." 

"Your  money?  No;  not  a  penny  of  your  money," 
Paul  laughed,  sarcastically. 

"Well,  haven't  you  gone  an'  moved  his  whole 
lay-out  into  Maybum's  new  house  an'  laid  in  fur- 
niture an'  supplies  an' — an' — " 

"Oh,  yes,  but  not  at  your  expense,"  Paul  con- 
tinued to  smile.  "I  knew  you  would  want  me  to 
quit  working  for  you  when  I  did  it;  still,  I  did  it, 
and  Pm  going  to  keep  it  up." 

"You  say  you  are!"  Hoag  had  never  had  his 
will  more  flatly  opposed.  "Well,  listen  to  me, 
young  man.  You  are  gittin'  entirely  too  big  for 
your  pants.  I  took  you  up  when  you  come  back 
here  under  the  ban  of  the  law  an'  couldn't  'a'  got  a 
job  like  this  to  save  your  neck.  I've  been  payin' 
you  a  hundred  a  month,  but  seein'  that  you  are 
countin'  on  livin'  like  a  royal  prince,  an'  spendin' 
your  wages  on  the  rag-tag  an'  bobtail  scum  of  the 

317 


Paul      Rundel 

earth,  .from  now  on  your  pay  is  cut  to  seventy-five 
dollars  a  month." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  Hoag's  were  burn- 
ing with  Satanic  triumph;  Paul's  held  a  certain 
gleam  of  pity,  and  yet  they  bore  down  with  a 
steadiness  that  stirred  the  slow  surprise  of  his  com- 
panion. 

"If  you  mean  that  as  final,"  Paul  said,  "I  have 
something  vital  and  positive  to  say  myself." 

"Fll  not  pay  a  cent  more,"  Hoag  panted.  "I'll 
see  you  dead  an'  buried  first.  Any  young  man  with 
the  chances  you  had,  to  go  an'  throw  'em  all  away 
for  a  low-lived  tramp  clodhopper — " 

"We'll  leave  Warren  out  of  the  matter,"  Paul 
interrupted,  almost  fiercely,  "My  proposition  to 
you  is  this,  Mr.  Hoag.  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you, 
because  certain  things  I  have  got  under  way  in 
your  interests  cannot  well  be  carried  out  by  any  one 
else,  and  it  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  cause  you 
to  lose.  Still,  I  know  my  value.  If  I  didn't  I'd  not 
have  brains  enough  to  manage  your  affairs  as  I  am 
managing  them.  Only  this  afternoon  I  have  had 
the  offer  of  the  superintendency  of  the  Doran  Cotton 
Mills.  The  pay  is  double  my  present  salary — with 
various  chances  of  promotion." 

"What — what?  You  say  that  you — you  say  that 
Doran — "  But  Hoag's  utterance  had  failed  him 
completely.  He  stood  quivering  from  head  to  foot, 
his  lip  hanging  low,  his  teeth  parted,  his  breath 
hissing  as  it  passed  through  them, 

"I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you,"  Paul  soft- 
ened. "It  is  wrong  for  two  men  to  quarrel — es- 
pecially wrong  for  one  who  has  learned  the  full  evil 
of  it  as  I  have,  and  we  need  not  do  it  now.     But  I 

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Paul      R  u  n  d  e 1 

have  certain  human  rights  which,  for  reasons  of 
your  own,  you  ignore,  and  are  trying  to  trample 
underfoot.  It  is  my  right  to  help  my  mother, 
and  any  one  else  I  see  fit  to  help.  I  cannot  do  these 
things  if  I  work  for  you  for  less  than  my  services 
are  worth  on  the  market.  I  want  to  remain  here, 
and  if  you  will  pay  me  the  price  offered  by  Doran 
I  will  do  so,  otherwise  I  shall  leave  you." 

"Pay  you — pay  you  two  hundred  a  month" — 
Hoag  gasped — "pay  you  double  what  you  now  get 
so  that  you  can  spend  it  on  a  lazy,  good-for-nothin' 
scamp?  Not  on  your  life!  I'll  see  the  last  one  of 
you  dead  first,  an'  laid  out  stark  an'  cold." 

"Then  it  is  settled,"  Paul  answered,  calmly, 
"I  told  Doran  I'd  let  him  have  my  decision  in 
the  morning.  I'll  leave  you  on  the  first  of  next 
month." 

"You  can  go  an'  be  damned,"  Hoag  swore  under 
his  breath,  and  raised  his  clenched  fist  and  shook 
it  in  Paul's  face.     "Git  out  o'  my  sight." 

And  with  that  ultimatum  Hoag  stalked  out  to  the 
platform.  Paul  looked  at  him  regretfully  a  moment 
and  then  turned  away. 

He  failed  to  see  his  employer  at  the  supper-table. 
He  was  at  work  in  his  room  near  bedtime  when 
he  heard  a  heavy,  dragging  step  on  the  stairs.  The 
next  moment  Hoag  leaned  in  the  open  doorway. 
His  face  was  flushed  with  drink ;  there  was  a  thwarted 
glare  in  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

"I  reckon  you  meant  what  you  said  about  Doran  ? " 
he  began,  sullenly. 

"Yes,  I  simply  stated  the  facts,"  Paul  answered. 

"You  said  you'd  keep  on  with  me  for  the  price 
Doran's  willin'  to  pay?" 

319 


Paul      R  u  n  d  e  1 

"Yes,"  Paul  returned,  with  dignity.  "I  meant 
to  put  it  that  way." 

"Well,  I  reckon" — ^in  blended  chagrin  and  anger — 
"you  are  worth  as  much  to  me  as  you  are  to  him. 
The  offer  comes  through  enemies  of  mine  who  want 
to  injure  me— fellers  that  stand  in  with  Doran — 
a  gang  o'  narrow  church  elders  over  there,  who  have 
got  it  in  for  me.  You  stay  on,  an'  I'll  try  not  to 
kick  any  more  over  your  private  matters.  Do  you 
understand  ? ' ' 

"I  think  so." 

"All  right,  then.  That's  all  I  wanted  to  say." 
Hoag  turned  to  the  door.  He  stood  there  for  a 
moment,  then  slowly  faced  Paul  again. 

"There  is  one  other  thing,"  he  said,  half-sheep- 
ishly.  ' '  I  got  onto  the  fact  that  you  went  on  Henry's 
note  at  the  bank  to  git  the  money  for  'im  to  go  into 
that  business  on,  an'  I  thought  I'd  tell  you  that  I 
don't  intend  to  let  you  lose  it.  Good  business  men 
think  Henry  is  goin'  to  make  money  thar.  In  fact, 
I  think  myself  that  he  may  stick  to  it.  I  was  in 
his  store  to-day  an'  his  partner  is  well  pleased  with 
the  work  Henry  is  doin'.  I  expect  to  pay  that  note 
off,  but  I'll  let  'im  owe  the  bank  a  while.  That  will 
be  best,  I  think."  And  with  that  Hoag  turned  and 
went  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  FEW  days  later  Hoag  was  walking  home  from 
his  cotton-gin.  It  was  near  noon.  It  had 
been  cool  and  cloudy  all  the  morning,  and  the 
humid  air  was  laden  with  a  hovering  mist  which 
at  every  moment  seemed  about  to  resolve  itself 
into  rain.  Suddenly,  in  a  thicket  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  he  saw  a  man  with  his  back  toward  him. 
The  gaunt  form  resembled  Sid  Trawley's,  yet  the 
queer  antics  of  the  hatless  figure  belied  such  an 
association,  for  it  was  bending  down  and  rising  up 
with  inexplicable  regularity.  Hoag  paused  and 
watched  in  growing  wonder.  It  was  plain  that 
the  man's  contortions  were  not  due  to  the  lifting 
of  an}''  tool,  for  every  few  seconds  a  pair  of  bare, 
splaying  hands  would  rise  above  the  head,  clutch  at 
the  air,  and  slowly  descend. 

"What  the  hell  ails  'im?"  Hoag  asked  himself, 
and  turning  into  the  thicket  he  approached  the 
animated  automaton.  It  was  Trawley.  On  seeing 
Hoag  he  flushed  deeply,  dropped  his  gaze  awk- 
wardly to  the  ground,  and  stood  silent,  though  smil- 
ing in  a  sheepish  way. 

"Look  here,  are  you  gone  plumb  distracted?" 
Hoag  demanded,  as  he  stood  eying  his  old  asso- 
ciate from  head  to  foot. 

"I  reckon  you  might  call  it  that,"  Trawley  an- 
swered, raising  his  arms  above  his  head  and  in- 
haling a  deep   breath.      "A   heap   o'   things   look 

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Paul     Rundel 

plumb  foolish  if    you  ain't  onto  the    scientific  ex- 
planation." 

"Well,"  Hoag  tittered,  "I  can't  see  no  sense  in 
a  big  strappin'  feller  like  you  actin'  like  a  jumpin'- 
jack  pullin'  it's  own  string  away  out  here  in  the 
woods  all  by  yourself." 

Trawley  threw  back  his  broad  shoulders,  took  a 
shorter  breath,  and  answered:  "I  railly  didn't  in- 
tend to  be  seen,  Jim,  much  less  by  you,  who  never 
would  believe  nothin'  outside  o'  your  own  hide. 
I've  been  doin'  this  thing  for  a  month  or  more." 

"You  say  you  have!"  Hoag  exhibited  one  of  his 
rare  tendencies  toward  a  smile,  "I  see  whar 
you've  pawed  up  the  grass  considerable.  It  looks 
like  the  ground  round  the  hitchin'-post  of  a  prize 
stallion." 

"I  reckon  I  have  come  here  as  much  as  anywhar 
else."  The  liveryman  comically  surveyed  the  spot 
in  question.  "I  git  the  walk  out,  an'  I  like  to 
operate  in  the  same  spot.  I  can  time  myself,  you 
see.  I  give  a'  hour  to  it  twice  a  day — momin'  an 
evenin'." 

"You  say  you  do!"  Hoag's  smile  broke  broadly, 
"Workin'  for  yourself  or  hired  out?" 

"I  knowed  you'd  joke,"  Trawley  said,  half 
abashed,  "but  no  joke  o'  your'n,  Jim  Hoag,  will 
turn  me  from  a  thing  as  good  as  this  is.  I've  been 
led  by  your  sort  long  enough.  Thar  are  things  in 
heaven  an'  earth,  Jimmy,  that  you  never  even 
saw  the  tail-end  of,  much  less  the  head  an'  shoulders, 
I  know,  for  I'm  just  beginnin'  to  catch  onto  a  power- 
ful big  thing." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  Hoag  said,  with  a  smile, 
"you  swore  you  was  goin'  to  lie  fiat  down  an'  die." 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"Yes,  that's  it;  I  did  say  it,  an'  I  was  as  sure  of 
it  as  I  am  that  you  are  a-standin'  thar  pokin'  fun 
right  now.  Jim,  I  was  on  the  actual  edge  o'  hell. 
I  could  see  the  smoke,  smell  the  fumes,  an'  hear  the 
smashin'  o'  teeth,  mentioned  in  Scripture.  You 
used  to  see  me  at  work  in  the  stable,  but  you  never 
seed  me  after  the  sun  went  down  an'  the  night  piled 
thick  and  heavy  around  me.  I  was  crazy.  I  ex- 
pected to  die  right  off,  an'  the  trouble  was  that  I 
wasn't  ready.    Then  what  do  you  reckon  happened  ? ' ' 

"I  was  just  wonderin'."  Hoag  really  was  inter- 
ested, and  he  stood  staring  seriously,  all  traces  of 
humor  submerged  in  curiosity. 

"Well,  I  was  at  my  lowest  ebb  one  day.  The 
doctor  had  examined  me  ag'in  an'  said  I  had  no 
stomach  that  would  hold  a  bite  I  ate,  an'  no  relish 
for  a  thing,  even  soft  baby  truck.  I  was  losin' 
weight  as  fast  as  a  dump-cart  o'  manure  with  a 
plank  gone  from  the  bottom,  an'  I  went  to  the 
stable  an'  set  down  to  try  to  reconcile  myself  to 
the  fate  that  all  men  has  to  meet  sooner  or  later, 
but  I  couldn't.  The  more  I  thought  about  it  the 
worse  I  got.  Jim,  in  that  little  hour  thar  in  my 
office,  humped  over  my  desk,  I  attended  over  ag'in 
every  funeral  I  ever  went  to,  an',  more'n  that,  I 
seed  every  pore  cuss  our  gang  ever  lynched  a- 
hangin'  from  the  rafters  above  the  backs  o'  my 
bosses  an'  mules.  I'd  'a'  killed  myself,  but  I  knowed 
I'd  just  be  hurried  to  judgment  all  the  quicker, 
an'  thar  I  was  actually  wallowin'  in  my  despair. 
Then  a  miracle  happened." 

"Oh,  it  did?  I  thought  that  might  be  a-comin'," 
Hoag  sneered,  "for  you  wasn't  wallowin'  in  any- 
thing like  that  when  I  catched  you  a  minute  ago." 

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Paul     Rundel 

"Ybu'll  say  I'm  a  big  fool,"  Trawley  went  on, 
with  the  glow  of  a  mild  fanatic  in  his  eyes;  "but  I 
don't  give  a  damn.  The  proof  of  the  puddin'  is 
chawin'  the  rag,  I've  always  heard.  Right  at  my 
worst  minute,  who  should  walk  in  an'  set  down  for 
a  chat  except  Paul  Rundel?  I  always  liked  that 
boy,  an'  when  he  come  home  to  give  'imself  up  like 
he  did  I  was  one  that  believed  he  meant  what  he 
said.  I'm  convinced  of  it  now,  because  he's  livin' 
up  to  his  doctrine.  Well,  one  thing  fetched  on 
another  as  me'n  him  talked,  till  somehow  I  got 
to  tellin'  him  how  low  I  was  an'  what  the  doctor 
said.  I  thought  he'd  be  sorry  for  me,  but  he  shuck 
his  head  an'  actually  laughed.  He  tuck  my  wrist, 
he  did,  an'  felt  my  piilse,  an'  then  he  peeled  my 
eyes  back  an'  looked  at  the  balls,  an'  made  me 
show  him  my  tongue;  then  he  slapped  me  on  the 
knee — careless  Hke — an'  laughed  free  an'  hearty. 

"  'Thar  ain't  nothin'  much  the  matter  with  you, 
Sid,'  he  said.  'I  know,  because  I've  run  across  lots 
an'  lots  o'  cases  like  your'n.'  Then  he  plunged  into 
the  sensiblest  talk — well.  Cap — ^Jim,  I  mean — 'scuse 
me,  I  never  heard  anything  to  equal  it  in  all  my 
born  days.  It  was  like  a  rousin'  sermon  preached 
by  a  jolly  base-ball  player,  or  a  feller  that  just 
got  the  meat  out  of  religion  an'  throwed  the  gristle 
to  the  dogs.  Why,  he  told  me  that  what  ailed  me 
couldn't  be  reached  by  any  dose  o'  medicine  that 
ever  slid  down  a  throat.  He  said  he'd  bet  his  hat 
that  I  had  some'n  on  my  mind  that  ought  to  be 
unloaded.  I  sort  o'  shied  off  thar,  but  he  went 
into  all  his  own  trouble  over  that  shootin'-scrape 
in  such  a  free  an'  open  way  that  I — " 

"You  didn't  —  you  didn't  violate  your  oath 
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Paul     Rundel 

to — "  Hoag  started,  and  his  shaggy  brows  met  sus- 
piciously. 

"No,  an'  I  didn't  have  to.  He  said — Paul  said — 
totin'  sin  that  was  behind  you  an'  ought  to  be  forgot 
was  as  rank  a  poison  to  some  systems  as  any  virus 
that  ever  crawled  through  the  blood,  an'  I  ad- 
mitted that  I  was  bothered  by  some  things  I'd  done 
that  I  didn't  want  to  talk  about.  But,  oh  my! 
how  good  that  boy  made  me  feel!  He  said  if  I 
would  just  quit  thinkin'  about  my  stomach  an' 
what  went  into  it,  an'  keep  my  mind  full  o'  pure 
thoughts,  determine  to  act  right  in  the  future,  an' 
take  exercise  in  the  open  air,  that  I'd  git  as  sound 
as  a  dollar  right  off." 

"Oh,  I  see. ' '  Hoag  smiled  more  easily.  "An'  you 
took  his  advice.  Well,  he  ain't  so  far  wrong.  Be- 
lievin'  you  are  done  for  is  powerful  weakenin'.  I 
seed  a  bedrid  old  hag  once  jump  out  o'  bed  when 
somebody  yelled  that  a  mad  dog  was  headed  toward 
her  cabin.  She  broke  out  with  nothin'  on  but  a  shift 
an'  one  stockin'  an'  run  half  a  mile,  waded  through 
a  creek,  an'  climbed  a  ten-rail  fence  to  git  to  a  neigh- 
bor's house,  an'  after  that  she  was  hale  an'  heart3^" 

"It's  a  sight  deeper  science  than  that  when  you 
work  it  accordin'  to  up-to-date  rules  an'  regula- 
tions," Trawley  blandly  explained.  "The  furder 
you  advance  in  it  the  more  you  seem  to  lay  hold 
of.  You  seed  me  bendin'  up  an'  down  just  now. 
Exercise  like  that,  'long  with  deep  breathin',  an'  the 
idea  that  you  are,  so  to  speak,  pullin'  good  thoughts 
an'  intentions  into  you  along  with  the  wind,  will 
do  more  than  ten  wholesale  drug-stores.  I  know, 
for  I  am  actually  a  new  man,  from  toe  to  scalp. 
I  don't  eat  nothin'  now  but  ham.     Look  at  my 

3^5 


Paul     Rundel 

muscles."  Trawley  exhibited  an  arm  tightly  con- 
tracted and  smiled  proudly.  "Why,  I  was  ready 
for  my  windin'-sheet  an'  the  coolin'-board.  If  I 
had  to  give  up  my  stable,  an'  every  hoss  an'  rig  I 
have,  or  let  go  of  this  idea,  I'd  do  it  an'  work  like 
a  nigger  in  a  ditch  for  bare  bread  an'  water.  Paul 
calls  it  'the  Science  of  Life,'  an'  he's  right.  In 
our  talk  that  day  he  said  that  it  would  be  well  to 
try,  as  far  as  I  could,  to  undo  any  wrong  I'd  ever 
done,  an'  soon  after  that  I  saw  Pete  Watson's  widow 
passin'  the  stable.  I'll  swear  she  did  look  pitiful 
in  her  old  raggety  shoes  with  the  toes  out,  totterin' 
along  with  her  kinky  head  down.  Well,  I  called 
'er  in  an'  had  a  talk — " 

"An'  give  us  all  dead  away!"  Hoag  flashed  in 
renewed  fear. 

"No,  I  didn't.  She  was  in  a  powerful  bad  fix, 
an'  I  let  'er  have  a  few  dollars  an'  told  'er  to  look 
me  up  any  time  she  was  rail  bad  off.  Lordy!  the 
sight  o'  that  old  thing's  face  did  me  good  for  a  week. 
I'm  goin'  to  hire  one  o'  her  sons  to  work  in  the 
stable.  I  reckon  I'd  be  a  freer  man  if  I  wasn't 
sorter  obligated  to  you  boys;  but  I  tell  you  now, 
Jim,  I'm  goin'  to  drag  my  skirts  away  from  you 
all  as  much  as  possible.  All  that  secret-order 
business  an'  folio  win'  your  lead  got  me  down. 
Paul  says,  in  all  the  places  he's  been  at,  he  never 
has  seed  as  bad  a  condition  of  affairs  as  we  got 
right  here.  He  says — an'  I  don't  know  whether 
he  suspicioned  that  I  was  implicated  or  not — but 
he  says  that  all  that  night-prowlin',  an'  scarin' 
half-witted  niggers  an'  stringin'  'em  up  to  limbs, 
won't  settle  our  trouble.  He  says  that  we've  got 
to  be  gentle  with  the  blacks  an'  train  'em.      He 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

says  the  old  slaveholders  was  kind  to  'em,  an' 
that's  why  no  outrages  was  ever  heard  of  before 
slavery  was  abolished,  an'  he  says  treatin'  the 
niggers  decent  now  will — " 

"He's  a  fool!"  Hoag  growled,  angrily.  "He's 
•gone  off  an'  lived  among  a  lot  o'  Yankees  who 
think  niggers  are  a  grade  better 'n  us  white  folks 
down  here.  They  don't  know  nigger-nature,  an' 
he  don't,  neither,  but  I'll  tell  you  one  thing:  he'd 
better  keep  his  mouth  shet,  an'  you — you  can  quit 
us  if  you  want  to,  but  you'd  better  not  make  too 
many  brags  about  it." 

"I'm  not  braggin'  7tow,"  Trawley  retorted.  "A 
feller  can't  well  brag  about  what  he  is  ashamed  of, 
an'  Jim,  I'm  heartily  ashamed  of  all  that  business. 
Lord,  Lord!  you  called  me  'Lieutenant',  an'  I 
remember  how  proud  I  was  of  the  title  the  night 
you  give  it  to  me  an'  the  boys  all  cheered.  'Lieu- 
tenant!' I  say,  'Lieutenant!'  I  hope  to  git  to  Heaven 
some  day  or  other,  an'  wouldn't  I  love  to  hear 
'em  call  me  that  up  thar  among  the  Blest,  an'  ax  how 
I  had  got  my  promotion?" 

"I  see  through  you,  Sid."  Hoag  was  nettled, 
and  yet  trying  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  unconcern, 
which  in  part  was  natural.  "Thar's  more'n  one 
way  o'  showin'  the  white  feather.  You  was  all 
right  as  long  as  you  felt  well  an'  strong,  but  the 
minute  you  begun  to  think  about  dyin'  you  went 
all  to  pieces.  That's  how  every  little  jack-leg 
preacher  makes  his  salary,  by  scarin'  your  sort  out 
o'  their  socks." 

"You  are  away  off  your  base."  Trawley  stretched 
himself,  raised  his  arms,  after  the  manner  of  his 
health   exercise,    lowered   them   to   his   sides,    and 

327 


Paul     Rundel 

smiled  confidently.  "Paul  Rundel  ain't  no  jack-leg 
preacher,  presidin'  elder,  or  bishop.  He's  movin' 
along  mixin'  business  with  joy  as  smooth  as  deep 
water  headed  for  the  ocean.  He  don't  charge  a 
cent ;  in  fact,  when  he  talks  it  looks  like  he  does  it 
because  he  can't  hold  in.  He  says  religion  don't 
mean  givin'  up  the  good  things  of  the  flesh  or  the 
spirit;  he  says  it  just  means  knowin'  how  to  live, 
an' — livin\     Why,  look  at  your  son  Henry." 

"What's  he  done  now?"  Hoag's  eyes  flickered 
ominously,  as  they  bent  upon  Trawley's  impas- 
sioned countenance. 

"Why,  nothin',  except  he's  workin'  like  a  wheel- 
hoss  an'  Paul  started  'im  by  a  few  straight  talks  on 
the  right  line  an'  havin'  faith  in  'im.  Jim  Hoag, 
I've  set  in  to  live  right,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  keep  it  up." 

"Lemme  tell  you  some'n,  Sid,"  Hoag  returned, 
dryly.  "I've  noticed  that  whenever  a  man  is 
plumb  played  out — cayn't  hold  his  own  among 
men,  loses  his  little  pile,  is  hopelessly  disgraced,  or 
somebody  dies  that  he  thinks  he  has  to  keep — why, 
he  goes  daft  about  the  wings  he's  goin'  to  wear  an' 
the  harp  he's  to  play  in  a  land  flowin'  with  milk 
an'  honey.  Since  the  world  begun  to  roll,  not  a 
word  has  come  back  from  the  spider-web  place  they 
all  talk  about,  an'  the  feller  that  believes  in  it  is 
simply  dyin'  of  the  dry-rot.  All  that  a  human 
bein'  will  ever  git  he'll  git  here  on  this  globe.  I've 
made  what  I've  got  by  hard  licks,  common  sense, 
an'  paddlin'  my  own  boat.  A  feller  that  sees  a  lot 
o'  jimjam  visions  ahead  never  will  buck  down 
to  real  life  here,  an'  he'll  never  lay  up  a  dollar  or 
own  a  foot  of  land.  Wise  men  knowed  all  this 
long  before  Jesus  Christ   come  teachin'   that  the 

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Paul      Rundel 

only  way  to  accumulate  was  to  give  away  all  you 
git,  make  a  two-sided  foot-mat  o'  your  face,  an'  asso- 
ciate with  fishermen  that  want  to  learn  how  to 
walk  on  the  water." 

"Say,   say,   Jim,   that's  purty  tough!"   Trawley 
•  protested.     But  with  a  smile  of  conscious  victory 
Hoag  was  starting  away. 

"Take  some  more  deep  breaths,"  he  chuckled 
over  his  shoulder,  "an'  while  you  are  drawin'  in 
truth  suck  down  what  I've  just  said.  I  kin  prove 
what  I'm  talkin'  about,  but  you  can't  prove  that 
any  sane  man  ever  dreamt  the  stuff  you  are  tryin' 
to  believe." 

Trawley  stood  still  on  the  spot  he  had  rendered 
grassless  by  his  modern  devotions,  and  stared  after 
the  receding  form.  "I'll  bet  it  will  take  me  a  week 
to  git  away  from  that  durn  fellow's  influence,"  he 
muttered.  "He  beheves  what  he  says,  an'  lives 
up — or  down,  rather — to  his  doctrine,  but  he's  kept 
me  crooked  long  enough.  He  was  my  god  once,  with 
all  his  power  an'  money,  but  he  ain't  no  longer. 
I  said  a  week  —  shucks!  I'm  free  already.  That 
sky  up  thar's  mine,  or  will  be  if  I  keep  on,  an'  it's 
got  no  fence  around  it  nuther."  Trawley  inhaled 
a  deep  breath,  bent  downward,  slowly  raised  him- 
self, and  with  a  light  step  started  home. 

"I've  got  a  sight  better  thing  than  he  has,"  he 
continued  to  think  of  Hoag,   "but  it  wouldn't  be 
right  to  gloat  over  'im.     The  idea  is  to  wish  well 
to  all — his  sort  along  with  the  rest." 
22 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ONE  clear,  warm  evening  Hoag  rode  along  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  The  sun  had  been 
down  for  an  hour,  and  the  valley  lay  beneath  the 
soft  folds  of  a  twilight  which,  ever  creeping  from 
west  to  east,  seemed  gradually  to  thicken  under  the 
increasing  rays  of  the  constantly  appearing  stars. 
He  saw  the  village  lights,  and  from  their  locations 
knew  where  the  main  buildings  stood — the  hotel, 
the  post-office,  and  the  wagon-yard,  marked  by  the 
red  glow  of  the  camp-fires.  He  could  see,  also,  his 
own  home  at  the  end  of  the  road  up  which  he  had 
ascended. 

The  incline  was  growing  steeper  and  his  horse 
was  stepping  cautiously,  and  shying  here  and  there 
at  real  or  fancied  objects  in  the  underbrush  on  each 
side  of  the  densely  shaded  road.  Presently  a  point 
was  reached  where  the  horse  could  not  well  advance 
further,  and  the  rider  dismounted,  hitched  his  rein 
to  a  bush,  and,  on  foot,  took  a  narrow  path  which 
led  down  a  steep  incline  into  a  cafion  of  consider- 
able depth  and  breadth.  Finally  gaining  a  sort  of 
level  at  the  bottom,  he  trudged  on  into  a  labyrinthian 
maze  of  brambles,  lichen-coated  boulders,  and  thorn- 
bushes,  headed  for  a  specter-like  cliff  which,  now 
and  then,  loomed  in  the  starlight. 

Presently  a  firm  cry  of  "Halt  there!"  greeted  him, 
and  a  tall,  lank  form,  topped  by  a  mask  of  white 

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Paul     Rundel 

cloth  with  jagged  eye  and  mouth  openings,  stood 
in  front  of  him. 

"Halt  yorcsclf,  Joe  Purvynes!"  Hoag  answered, 
facetiously. 

"Halt,  I  say!  That  won't  do,"  and  the  figure 
raised  a  long-barreled  gun  and  threateningly  pre- 
sented it.     "What's  the  password?" 

"Hold  on,  hold  on!"  Hoag  laughed  uneasily. 
"It's  me,  Joe!" 

*  *  Me  I  I  don't  know  no  me's  in  this  business.  You 
give  me  the  proper  password  or  I'll  plug  you  full  o' — " 

"A  white  man's  country,"  Hoag  hurriedly  com- 
plied.    "Thar,  I  reckon  that  will  suit  you." 

"Good  Lord,  Cap!  I  swear  I  didn't  know  you," 
the  sentinel  exclaimed  apologetically.  "By  gum, 
I  come  'in  an  inch  o'  givin'  the  signal  to  the  boys 
up  thar  to  He  low.  It  ain't  for  me  to  dictate  to 
you,  but  you  ought  to  obey  regulations  yourself  if 
you  expect  the  rest  to  keep  order.  Cap,  this  ain't 
no  jokin'  business;  we've  got  to  be  careful." 

"I  thought  you'd  know  my  voice."  Hoag  fended 
the  matter  off  with  an  impatient  gesture  and  an 
audible  sniff.     "The  klan  arrived  yet?" 

"Yes,  up  thar  in  the  open;  some  of  'em  got  here 
at  sundown.  Never  seed  'em  so  eager  before. 
They've  got  some  game  up  their  sleeves.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you.  You  are  goin'  to  have  trouble  with 
'em.  Cap." 

"Trouble?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I've  got  any  ground  to  say  it" — 
the  sentinel  leaned  on  his  gun  and  lifted  the  lower 
part  of  his  mask,  that  he  might  speak  more  freely — 
"but  it's  the  young  members.  Cap.  They  ain't 
satisfied  with  bein'  inactive  so  long.     They  say  us 

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Paul     Rundel 

older,  men  are  takin'  the  dry-rot,  an'  won't  git  out 
at  night  because  we  want  to  lie  in  bed  an'  snooze." 

Hoag  swore  under  his  breath.  He  reflected  a 
moment  in  silence;  then  he  asked,  "Who's  the  ring- 
leader?" 

"Hard  to  say.  Cap;  they  are  all  a-talkin'.  Thar's 
a  dozen  or  more,  but  Nape  Welbome  is  the  worst. 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth.  They  are  ag'in' 
you;  they  are  bent  on  creatin'  dissatisfaction — 
bustin'  up  the  old  order  an'  startin'  out  ag'in,  as 
they  say,  with  new  blood.  They've  got  some 
fresh  devilment  to  propose  to-night,  an'  if  you 
don't  fall  in  line  double-quick  they  are  a-goin'  to 
move  to  elect  a  new  captain." 

"  I  see,  I  see."  Hoag  felt  his  blood  rush  in  an 
angry  torrent  to  his  head.  "They  are  mad  because 
I  didn't  favor  breakin'  in  the  jail  last  meetin'  to 
take  out  Mart  Dill.  He's  Nape's  uncle,  you  know. 
I  was  plumb  right  about  that,  Purvynes.  Mart 
paid  his  fine  an'  is  free  now,  anyway." 

"I  understand.  Cap,  but  it  made  a  lot  of  'em  mad. 
Of  course  I  don't  know,  but  they  say  you  had  some 
grudge  ag'in'  Mart,  an'  that's  why  you  refused 
to  act.  They've  got  liquor  in  'em  to-night  up  to 
the  neck,  an'  you'll  have  to  handle  'em  easy  or  we'll 
bust  into  flinders." 

"I'll  break  their  necks,  damn  them!"  Hoag 
turned  to  go  on.  "They  can't  run  over  me  rough- 
shod. I've  been  at  the  head  o'  this  band  too  long 
for  that." 

"Well,  I've  give  you  my  opinion,  Cap,"  Purvynes 
said,  more  coldly.  "I  hope  you'll  try  to  keep  down 
a  split.  Some'n  seems  goin'  crooked,  anyway.  Sid 
Trawley's  talkin'  a  lot — gone  daffy  an'  turned  into 

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Paul     Rundel 

a  regular  preacher.  I  know  a  half-dozen  old  uns  he's 
kept  home  to-night,  an'  Nape  Welbome  is  goin'  to 
make  trouble.  He  hates  the  ground  you  walk  on. 
Thar's  no  ifs  and  ands  about  that." 

Farther  along,  at  the  base  of  the  almost  perpen- 
dicular cliff,  Hoag  found  fifty  or  sixty  men  waiting 
for  him.  Some  lay  smoking  on  the  grass,  others  hung 
about  in  various  restless  attitudes,  and  a  group  of 
ten  or  twelve  of  the  younger  men  sat  eating  tinned 
oysters  and  sardines  with  crackers,  and  drinking 
whisky  from  huge  flasks  which  stood  on  the  ground 
in  their  midst. 

A  man  on  the  edge  of  the  assembly  recognized 
the  leader,  and  saluting  respectfully,  called  out, 
"Boys,  rise;  the  Captain  is  here!" 

Thereupon  a  formality  took  place  which  to  Hoag 
had  always  been  a  subtle  delight.  Those  standing 
removed  their  hats,  and  all  who  were  seated  strug- 
gled to  their  feet  and  stood  silent  and  uncovered. 

"How  are  you,  boys?"  That  constituted  Hoag's 
usual  greeting,  and  then  every  one  sat  down,  and  for 
a  moment  silence  ensued.  There  was  a  fallen  log 
on  the  border  of  the  assemblage,  and  upon  this  the 
leader  sat  as  if  upon  a  judicial  bench.  He  put  his 
hat  on  the  grass  at  his  feet  and  folded  his  hands  be- 
tween his  knees.  There  was  a  low  tinkle  of  a  knife- 
blade  gouging  out  potted  ham  from  a  jagged  tin, 
and  Hoag  drew  himself  erect  and  frowned. 

"Let  up  on  that  eatin'  thar!"  he  said,  testily. 
"One  thing  at  a  time.  I've  had  a  hard  ride  to  git 
up  here,  an'  I'll  be  treated  with  proper  respect  or — " 
"You  be  damned!"  a  low  voice  muttered,  and  a 
soft  titter  of  startled  approval  rose  in  the  group  of 
younger  men  and  slowly  died  in  the  consternation 

333 


Paul     Rundel 

which'  Hoag's  fierce  attitude  seemed  to  set  afloat 
upon  the  air. 

"Who  said  that?"  he  sharply  demanded,  and  he 
half  rose  to  his  feet  and  leaned  forward  in  a  threat- 
ening attitude. 

There  was  no  response.  Hoag,  standing  fully 
erect  now,  repeated  his  question,  but  the  surly  de- 
mand elicited  only  a  repetition  of  the  tittering  and 
a  low,  defiant  groan. 

Hoag  slowly  and  reluctantly  resumed  his  seat. 
"I'm  goin'  to  have  order  an'  obedience,"  he  growled. 
"That's  what  I'm  here  for,  an'  anybody  that  wants 
trouble  can  git  it.     This  is  me  a-talkin'." 

The  silence  was  unbroken  now  and,  somewhat 
mollified,  Hoag  proceeded  to  the  business  of  the 
night.  "Mr.  Secretary,"  he  said,  "call  the  roll, 
an'  make  careful  note  of  absentees  an'  impose  fines." 

A  man  holding  a  bit  of  Hghted  candle  and  a  sheet 
of  paper  stood  up  and  went  through  this  formality. 

"How  many  missin'?"  Hoag  inquired,  when  the 
roll-call  was  over  and  the  candle  extinguished. 

"Seven,  not  countin'  Sid  Trawley,"  was  the 
response. 

"Cold  feet — seven  more  beyond  the  age-limit!" 
a  wag  in  the  younger  group  was  heard  to  say  in  a 
maudlin  and  yet  defiant  tone. 

"Order  thar!"  Hoag  commanded  in  a  stentorian 
voice. 

"Gone  to  nigger  prayer-meetin',"  another  boldly 
muttered,  and  Hoag  stamped  his  foot  and  called 
for  order  again.  "What  have  we  got  before  the 
body?"  he  inquired,  in  agreement  with  his  best  idea 
of  parliamentary  form.    "  Do  I  hear  any  proposals  ? ' ' 

There  was  a  short  pause,  then  a  young  man  in 

334 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

the  noisy  group  rose.  It  was  Nape  Welbome.  His 
mouth  was  full  of  the  dry  crackers  he  was  munch- 
ing, and  little  powdery  puffs  shot  from  his  lips 
when  he  began  to  speak. 

"Worshipful  Knight,  an'  gentlemen  of  the  Elian," 
he  began,  with  an  obvious  sneer.  "I've  been  asked 
to  say  a  few  words  to-night.  Considerable  dis- 
satisfaction has  got  up  in  our  body.  Things  has 
been  proposed  that  in  common  decency  ought  to 
have  gone  through,  an'  they've  been  put  under  the 
table  an'  nothin'  done.  The  general  opinion  is  that 
this  has  come  to  be  a  one-man  gang." 

"Everything's  been  put  to  a  vote,"  Hoag  re- 
torted, with  startled  and  yet  blunt  dignity. 

Grunts  and  sniffs  of  contempt  ran  through  the 
group  of  younger  men,  and  when  the  Captain  had 
secured,  order  Welborne  resumed.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  making  no  effort  to  disguise  his  rancor. 

"Yes,  they  was  snowed  under  after  our  worshipful 
leader  showed  that  he  wasn't  in  for  action,  an'  the 
men  wouldn't  move  without  an  authorized  head." 

"That's  no  way  to  put  it,"  Hoag  retorted.  "As 
your  leader  I  had  to  say  what  I  thought  was  wisest 
an'  best.  I  always  have  done  it,  an'  heard  nothin' 
ag'in'  it  till  now." 

"Because  you  used  to  have  a  little  more  red  blood 
in  your  veins  than  you  got  now,  an'  that's  sayin' 
powerful  little."  The  speaker's  eyes  bore  down  upon 
the  upturned  faces,  and  was  greeted  by  a  loud  clap- 
ping of  hands  and  boisterous  exclamations  of  agree- 
ment. 

Hoag  was  white  with  helpless  fury.  "You  mean 
to  say — damn  you — "  he  began,  only  to  lapse  into 
cautious  silence,   for  there  was   something  in   the 

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Paul     Rundel 

staring  tenseness  of  the  speaker  and  his  crouching 
supporters  which  was  ominous  of  a  storm  that  was 
ready  to .  break. 

"Be  careful,  Cap!"  It  was  the  voice  of  Purvynes 
close  behind  him,  and  the  sentinel  leaned  downward 
on  his  gun  to  finish:  "They  are  drunk  an'  have  got 
it  in  for  you.  They  are  bent  on  devilin'  you  to- 
night an'  forcin'  an  issue.     Look  sharp!" 

Welbome  had  drawn  himself  up  and  was  silent. 
Hoag  nodded  despairingly  at  the  man  behind  him 
and  said:  "Go  on  with  your  proposition,  Brother 
Welborne.    What  is  it  you  want  ? " 

Welbome  laughed  out  impulsively.  "I  see  we  are 
gettin'  to  be  kin  folks.  Well,  to  come  down  to 
hard-pan  an'  brass  tacks,  Worshipful  Knight,  King 
o'  the  Mossbacks,  I  am  empowered  to  say  that — " 

"That  he's  got  cold  feet!"  a  merry  voice  broke 
in  with  an  irrepressible  giggle. 

At  this  Hoag  sprang  up,  but  hearing  Purvynes' 
startled  warning  behind  him,  and  reaHzing  what 
open  resentment  on  his  part  would  mean,  he  stood 
unsteadily  for  an  instant  and  then  sank  down. 

"Go  on!"  he  said,  desperately.  "We'll  hear  you 
out." 

"I  wasn't  goin'  to  use  them  nasty  words  myself,'' 
the  speaker  smiled  down  into  the  beardless  face 
from  which  they  had  issued,  "for  it  wouldn't  be 
becomin'  on  an  occasion  Hke  this.  Cold  feet  don't 
seem  to  fill  the  bill  exactly,  nohow.  A  man  may 
have  a  cold  pair  when  his  judgment  is  ag'in'  some 
move  or  other.  The  thing  some  of  us  new  members 
find  ourselves  up  against  in  our  leader  is  rank 
cowardice,  an'  plenty  of  it." 

"Cowardice!"  Hoag  allowed  his  rigid  lips  to  echo. 
336 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"That's  the  word,"  the  speaker  stared  fixedly, 
as  low  murmurs  of  approval  swept  through  the 
immediate  group  around  him  and  permeated  the 
borders  of  the  crowd  in  general. 

"Explain  yourself."  Hoag  was  conscious  of  fight- 
ing for  some  expedient  of  rescue  under  the  shadow 
of  toppling  defeat. 

"Oh,  well,  our  boys  have  made  up  their  minds 
that  you  are  plumb  without  any  sort  o'  real  grit," 
Welbome  said,  firmly.  "You  seem  to  be  one  solid 
bluff  from  beginnin'  to  end.  We  could  cite  half  a 
dozen  cases,  not  to  mention  the  two  times  that  Jeflf 
Warren  made  you  eat  dirt  an'  lick  the  soles  of  his 
boots." 

"It's  a  lie!"  Hoag  floimdered,  recklessly.  "A 
low,  dirty  lie!" 

Welbome  stepped  out  from  the  group  and  ad- 
vanced half-way  to  the  captain.  "That's  what 
I've  been  hopin'  you'd  git  to,"  he  said,  calmly. 
"I  suppose  you  mean  me.  Now,  rise  from  that  log, 
Hoag,  an'  prove  whether  you  got  any  backbone 
or  not.  You  are  not  only  a  liar,  but  a  low-lived 
coward  in  the  bargain!" 

Dead  silence  fell.  Hoag  was  well  aware  that  his 
power  was  gone — his  throne  had  crumbled  under 
his  feet,  for  he  saw  the  utter  futility  of  fighting  the 
young  giant  before  him,  and  he  knew  that  many 
of  his  supporters  would  regard  it  as  inevitable. 

"I  didn't  say  yoii  was  a  liar.     I  said — " 

"But  I  say  you  are  worse  than  that,"  Welbome 
snarled,  "and  you've  got  to  set  thar  before  us  all 
an'  chaw  my  statement  an'  gulp  it  down." 

"You  fellows  have  laid  a  trap  for  me,"  Hoag 
muttered,  desperately.     He  glanced  around  at  the 

337 


Paul     Rundel 

older  men.  How  strange  it  was  that  no  word  of 
rebuke  came  from  even  the  wisest  of  them!  Surely 
they  didn't  believe  the  charge  of  this  wild  young 
drunkard  after  all  those  years  in  which  he  had 
led  them,  and  had  their  homage  and  respect. 

"I  see  you  don't  mean  to  defend  yourself,"  Wel- 
borne  went  on,  glancing  around  at  the  gathering, 
"an'  that's  proof  enough  of  what  I  say.  You've 
held  your  post  not  because  you  was  a  brave  man, 
Jim  Hoag,  but  because  you  had  money  that  some 
men  are  low  enough  to  bow  before;  but  us  young 
men  in  these  mountains  will  have  a  leader  with 
sand  in  his  craw,  or  none  at  all."  The  speaker 
paused,  and  his  fellows  stood  up  around  him.  There 
was  a  warm  shaking  of  hands,  a  rising  clamor  of 
approval,  and  this  spread  even  to  the  older  men, 
who  were  excitedly  talking  in  low  tones. 

"Come  on,  boys,  let's  go  home!"  Welbome  pro- 
posed. "We'll  have  that  meetin'  to-morrow  night, 
an'  we'll  do  things.  Next  time  a  good  man  gits  in 
jail  no  low-lived  skunk  will  keep  him  thar!" 

"Good,  good!"  several  voices  exclaimed.  The 
entire  assemblage  was  on  its  feet.  Hoag  rose  as  if 
to  demand  order,  but  the  purpose  was  drowned  in 
the  flood  of  dismay  within  him.  He  saw  Welbome 
and  his  friends  moving  away.  They  were  followed 
by  others  more  or  less  slowly,  who  threw  awkward 
backward  glances  at  him.  Presently  only  Purvynes 
and  he  remained. 

The  sentinel  leaned  on  the  barrel  of  his  gun  and 
chewed  his  tobacco  slowly. 

"I  seed  this  thing  a-comin'  a  long  time  back." 
He  spat  deliberately,  aiming  at  a  stone  at  his  feet. 
"They've  talked  too  much  behind  your  back  to 

338 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

be  true  to  your  face.  I  can  say  it  now,  I  reckon, 
for  I  reckon  you  want  to  understand  the  thing. 
Do  you,  or  do  you  not?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  Hoag 
said,  with  the  lips  of  a  corpse,  the  eyes  of  a  dying 
man.     "I  simply  don't!" 

"Well,  it's  this  a  way,"  Purvynes  explained, 
with  as  much  tact  as  he  could  command.  "Wel- 
bome  didn't  tell  it  all.  What  really  has  rankled 
for  a  long  time  was  that  —  they  say,  you  under- 
stand —  that  you  just  kept  this  thing  a-goin'  for 
a  sort  o'  hobby  to  ride  on  when  you  ain't  off  in 
Atlanta  havin'  a  good  time.  They  claim  that  you 
just  love  to  set  back  an'  give  orders,  an'  preside 
like  a  judge  an'  be  bowed  an'  scraped  to.  They  say 
that,  here  of  late,  you  hain't  seemed  to  be  alive  to 
home  interests  or  present  issues.  They  claim  the 
niggers  are  gittin'  unbearable  all  around,  an'  that 
you  are  afraid  they  will  rise  an'  bum  some  o'  your 
property.  They  say  you  don't  care  how  much  the 
niggers  insult  white  folks,  an'  that  you'd  rather  see 
a  decent  farmer's  wife  scared  by  a  black  imp  than 
lose  one  o'  your  warehouses  or  mills.  They  are 
goin'  to  reorganize  to-morrow  night.  An'  listen  to 
me,  Jim — "  Hoag  heard  the  man  address  him  for 
the  first  time  by  his  Christian  name — "they  are 
goin'  to  raise  hell.  An'  that's  whar  you  an'  me 
come  in." 

"Whar  we  come  in?  You  don't  think  they  would 
dare  to — to — "  Hoag  began  tremulously,  and  ended 
in  rising  dismay. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  they  would  actually  mob  you 
or  me  or  any  o'  the  old  klan,  but  whatever  they 
do  will  be  laid  at  our  door  because  we've  been  in 

339 


Paul     Rundel 

the  thing  so  long.  The  truth  is,  Jim,  you  trained 
them  fellers  to  be  what  they  are;  they  are  jest 
sparks  off  of  your  flint.  I  reckon  if  Nape  Welbome 
laiowed  how  I  looked  at  it  he'd  say  I  had  cold  feet, 
for  I've  been  doin'  a  sight  o'  thinkin'  lately.  I've 
heard  Paul  Rundel  talk  on  this  Hne." 

"You  say  you  have!     He's  a  fool." 

"I  don't  know  'bout  that;  if  he  ain't  got  it  down 
about  right,  nobody  has.  I  heard  him  talkin'  to  a 
crowd  one  day  at  the  flour-mill.  He  ain't  afraid 
o'  man  nor  beast.  Everybody  knows  that.  Nape 
Welbome  chipped  in  once,  but  Paul  settled  'im, 
an'  Nape  was  ashamed  to  argue  any  longer.  Paul 
says  we  are  in  an  awful  fix.  He  prophesied  then  that 
we'd  turn  ag'in'  our  own  race  an'  we  are  a-doin'  it. 
You  yourself  have  made  enemies  among  the  very 
men  that  used  to  follow  you,  an'  the  Lx^rd  only 
knows  whar  it  will  end." 

Hoag  stifled  a  groan  and  struggled  to  his  feet. 
His  legs  felt  stiff  and  hea\'y  from  inactivity.  He 
stood  staring  out  into  the  void  above  the  tree-tops. 
The  rocky  fastness  immediately  around  was  as  still 
as  if  the  spot  were  aloof  from  time  and  space — so 
still,  indeed,  that  a  pebble  of  the  disintegrating  cliff 
being  released  by  the  eternal  law  of  change  rattled 
from  summit  to  base  quite  audibly.  From  down 
the  mountain-side  came  boisterous  singing.  It  was 
Welborne  and  his  supporters. 

"D'you  hear  that?"  Purvynes  asked,  as,  gun 
under  arm,  he  got  ready  to  walk  on  with  his  com- 
panion. 

"Hear  what?"  Hoag  roused  himself  as  from  a 
confused  dream. 

"Them  young  devils!"  Purvynes  chuckled,  as  if 
340 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

amused.    "They  need  a  good  lickin' — them  boys  do. 
Can't  you  hear  what  they  are  a-singin'?" 

"No,  I  can't.    I  wasn't  payin'  no  attention." 

"Why,  it's— 

" '  Jim  Hoag's  body  lies  molderin'  in  the  grave.' " 

Hoag  made  no  answer.  He  trudged  along  the 
rocky  path  in  advance  of  the  other.  He  stumped 
his  toes  occasionally,  and  was  puffing  from  the 
exertion.  The  perspiration  stood  in  visible  drops 
on  his  furrowed  brow.  They  had  reached  Hoag's 
horse,  and  he  was  preparing  to  mount,  when  a 
fusillade  of  pistol-shots,  the  clatter  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  loud  yells  were  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"What's  that?"  Hoag  paused  with  his  hand 
in  the  mane  of  his  mount,  his  foot  in  the  stir- 
rup. 

"Oh,  it's  just  them  fellows  celebratin'  their  vic- 
tory. I'll  bet  they've  already  made  Nape  captain. 
But  you  can  see  how  they  are  a-goin'  to  run  things. 
We'll  see  the  day,  Jim,  when  us  older  men  will  be 
sorry  we  didn't  let  up  on  this  business  sooner. 
You  know,  I  believe  the  klan  would  'a'  died  out  long 
ago  if  you  hadn't  took  so  much  pride  in  it." 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  you,  Jim.  Over  half  the  members  kept  in 
just  to  curry  favor  one  way  or  another  with  you, 
an'  to  drink  the  liquor  you  furnished  on  meetin'- 
nights,  an'  have  som'er's  to  go," 

"I  reckon  you  are  mistaken." 

"No,  I  ain't.  This  thing's  been  your  pet,  Jim, 
but  you're  lost  your  grip  on  it — ^you  have  sure.    An' 


Paul     Rundel 

you  oughtn't  to  be  sorry — I  swear  you  oughtn't  to 
be." 

The  valley,  which  he  could  now  see  from  the  back 
of  his  horse,  was  Nature's  symbol  of  infinite  peace. 
From  its  dark  depths  rose  the  dismal  hooting  of  a 
night-owl,  the  shrill  piping  of  a  tree-frog. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ABOUT  this  time  Paul  paid  his  first  visit  to  the 
L  attractive  cottage  now  occupied  by  Warren 
and  his  wife  and  sister-in-law.  As  he  entered  at  the 
front  door  he  saw  his  mother  in  the  meadow  some 
distance  from  the  house.  Amanda  was  dusting  the 
new  furniture  in  the  little  parlor,  and,  seeing  him, 
she  came  forward  with  a  flushed,  pleased  look  on 
her  round  face. 

"Oh,  we  have  got  things  to  goin'  scrumptious!" 
she  laughed,  as  she  grasped  his  hand  and  drew  him 
into  the  parlor.  "Paul,  it's  a  regular  palace.  The 
day  the  furniture  come  we  all  worked  till  away 
after  dark  gettin'  things  straight.  That's  the  best 
cook-stove  I  ever  saw,  an'  you  sent  enough  groceries 
to  last  a  month.  I  made  your  ma  go  to  town  an' 
buy  the  clothes  she  needed,  too.  The  storekeeper 
said  the  more  we  ordered  the  better  it  would  please 
him,  for  thar  wasn't  no  limit  to  your  credit.  Oh, 
Paul,  I  wish  I  could  think  it  was  right." 

"But  it  is  right,"  he  smiled,  reassuiingly.     "It  is 
right  because  it  makes  me  happy  to  be  able  to  do 
it." 
.  "That's  what  Ethel  Mayfield  said—" 

"Ethel!"  he  broke  in,  his  smile  subsiding.  "Have 
you  seen  her?     Has  she — " 

"Oh,  yes,  she  was  over  yesterday.  Paul,  she's 
awfully  nice.     I  don't  know  when  I  have  ever  seen 

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Paul     Run  del 

a  nicer  young  lady.  She  ain't  one  bit  stuck  up. 
She  was  passin'  along  by  the  gate  an'  stopped  an' 
introduced  herself  to  me  an'  Addie.  She  offered 
to  come  in  an'  help  fix  up  the  house,  said  she'd 
love  to  the  best  in  the  world,  but  we  wouldn't  let 
'er." 

"And  you  say  that  she  said — "  Paul  began, 
tensely,  "that  she  said  I — " 

"Yes;  you  see,  your  ma  begun  sayin'  that  she 
couldn't  feel  right  about  lettin'  you  do  so  much 
for  us  after  all  that's  passed,  and  you  know  how 
Addie  is — she  set  in  to  cry.  That's  when  I  dis- 
covered Ethel  Mayfield's  woman-heart.  She  choked 
up  'erself,  an'  put  'er  arm  round  your  ma  in  the 
tenderest  way,  and  said — Paul,  she  said  you  was 
the  best  young  man  the  sun  ever  shone  on.  You 
never  heard  the  like  since  you  was  born.  It  looked 
like  nothin'  would  stop  'er.  The  more  she  went  on 
the  more  your  ma  cried,  an'  that  started  me,  an' 
we  was  the  silliest  bunch  o'  blubberers  you  ever 
saw — ^wet  every  rag  in  sight.  I  had  to  change  my 
apron.  Ethel  said  you'd  made  a  different  sort  o' 
creature  of  her  from  what  she  used  to  be.  She  de- 
clared she  seed  all  things  with  a  clearer  sight — that 
thar  wasn't  any  human  difficulty  you  couldn't  sur- 
mount. She  told  your  ma  that  she  knowed  it  was  a 
regular  joy  to  you  to  help  'er,  an'  that  she  must  let 
you  do  it.  I  declare  that  girl  looked  like — I  don't 
know  what  she  did  look  like.  She  was  as  nigh  an 
angel  as  any  human  I  ever  met.  Her  face  was  as 
tender  as  a  rose  an'  her  eyes  was  fairly  streamin'  with 
inside  light.  She  kept  takin'  your  ma  by  the  hands 
an'  pettin'  'er,  an*  tellin'  'er  she  was  pretty.  She 
told  us  how  nigh  distracted  she'd  been  over  her 

344 


Paul     J<  u  n  d  e  1 

cousin's  death,  an'  how  you'd  turned  her  sorrow  into 
comfort  by  the  beautiful  way  you  looked  at  it." 

"She  is  very  kind,"  Paul  said.  "Is  my  mother 
coming  in?" 

"Yes,  she'll  be  in  right  away.  Sa^^  Paul" — 
Amanda  caught  his  lapel  and  held  on  to  it — "is  thar 
anything  between  you  an' — I  mean — it  ain't  none  o' 
my  business,  but  it  seems  to  me  like  Ethel  is  just  the 
sort  o'  girl  that  you  would  naturally  take  to,  an' — " 

Paul  detached  himself  from  her  clinging  hold, 
and  essayed  a  faint  smile,  while  his  blood  beat  furi- 
ously in  his  face. 

"You  mustn't  think  of  such  things,"  he  faltered, 
in  a  feeble  effort  to  appear  unconcerned.  "She 
and  I  are  good  friends,  that  is  all.  You  see,  she  is 
to  inherit  something  from  her  uncle,  and  he  has 
set  his  heart  on  her  marr}'ing  a  rich  young  man 
in  Atlanta — a  fellow  that  is  all  right,  too,  in  every 
way.  She  knew  him  before  she  knew  me,  and — 
well,  I  am  not  a  marrying  man,  anyway.  I  really 
don't  think  I  ever  shall  marry.  Some  men  have  to 
stay  single,  you  know." 

Amanda  recaptured  his  lapels,  and  faced  him 
with  a  warm  stare  of  tenderness.  ' '  Paul,  if  I  thought 
that  us  three  old  sticks-in-the-mud  was  standin' 
between  you  an'  that  purty,  sweet  girl — young  as 
you  are,  with  Hfe  spreadin'  out  before  you  like  it 
is — after  all  your  troubles,  I — well,  I  couldn't  let 
you — I  just  couldn't!" 

"How  silly  of  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing!"  he 
laughed,  freely.  "This  opportunity  to  help  you  all, 
slight  as  it  is,  will  be  the  very  making  of  me." 

"It's  certainly  makin'  a  man  of  Jeff,"  Amanda 
smiled,  through  glad  tears.     "He's  plumb  different 

23  345 


Paul     Rundel 

from  ■  what  he  used  to  be.  He  talks  about  you 
like  you  was  a  royal  prince.  He  says  he  is  ac- 
ceptin'  this  help  only  as  a  loan,  an'  that  he'll  pay 
it  back  'fore  he  dies  or  break  a  trace.  He  rises  at 
daybreak,  an'  works  like  a  steam-engine  till  after 
dark.  He's  quit  singin' — says  he's  goin'  to  sell  the 
organ.  He's  gittin'  his  health  an'  strength  back, 
an'  holds  his  head  higher.  A  funny  thing  happened 
yesterday.  You'd  'a'  laughed  if  you'd  been  here. 
He's  been  talkin'  powerful  about  some'n  he  heard 
you  say  in  regard  to  controllin'  the  temper  an'  not 
hatin'  folks,  an'  he  hammers  on  it  constantly.  He 
says  his  temper  has  always  held  'im  down,  an'  that 
you  naturally  would  have  more  respect  for  'im  if 
he'd  control  it.  Me  an'  him  happened  to  be  stand- 
in'  at  the  gate  talkin'  on  that  very  subject,  when 
we  seed  Jim  Hoag  ridin'  along  toward  us.  Now, 
Jeff  hadn't  met  Hoag  face  to  face  since  we  got 
back,  an'  knowin'  how  quick  on  trigger  Jeff  was, 
an'  how  high  an'  mighty  Hoag  holds  hisse'f  with 
common  folks,  I  was  afraid  the  two  might  hitch 
right  then  an'  thar.  I  knowed  Jeff  wouldn't  avoid 
'im  and  I  was  sure  Hoag  would  make  'im  mad  if  he 
had  half  a  chance,  an'  so  to  avoid  trouble  I  said  to 
Jeff: 

"  'Jeff,'  said  I,  'now  is  the  time  for  you  to  prac- 
tise some  o'  your  preachin'.  Meet  Jim  Hoag  like 
you  don't  want  no  more  trouble,  an'  all  will  be 
well  betwixt  you  both  in  future.'  I  reminded 
'im  that  it  was  railly  his  duty,  seein'  that  you  git 
your  livin'  out  o'  Hoag  an'  we  was  so  much  bene- 
fited." 

"And  so  they  made  friends,"  Paul  said,  eagerly. 
"I  was  afraid  the  old  score  would  revive  again." 

346 


Paul     Rundel 

"Made  friends?  I'll  tell  you  how  they  acted  an' 
you  kin  think  what  you  like,"  Amanda  laughed. 
"I've  seed  Jeff  in  a  tight  place  before,  but  not  one 
o'  that  sort.  He  stood  hangin'  his  head,  his  Hps 
curlin'  an'  his  eyes  fiashin',  an'  all  the  time  Hoag's 
hoss  was  a-fetchin'  'im  closer  an'  closer.  I  seed 
Jeff  makin'  a  struggle  like  a  man  tryin'  to  come 
through  at  the  mourner's  bench  in  a  revival  an* 
bein'  helt  back  by  the  devil  an'  all  his  imps,  but 
the  best  side  won,  an'  as  Hoag  got  opposite  the 
gate  Jeff  tuck  a  deep  breath  an'  called  out,  'Hold 
on  a  minute,  Jim  Hoag,  I  want  a  word  with  you.'  " 

"Good!"  Paul  laughed.  "It  was  like  pulling  eye- 
teeth,  but  he  got  there,  didn't  he?" 

"You  wait  till  I'm  through  an'  you'll  see," 
Amanda  smiled  broadly,  as  she  stroked  her  face 
with  her  big  hand.  "Hoag  drawed  in  his  hoss 
an'  looked  down  at  Jeff  with  a  face  as  yaller  as  a 
pumpkin  an'  eyes  that  fairly  popped  out  o'  their 
sockets. 

"  'What  you  want  to  see  me  about?'  he  axed,  an' 
I  declare  he  growled  like  a  bear. 

"  'Why,  you  see,  Jim,'  Jeff  said,  leanin'  on  the 
gate,  'me  an'  you  have  always  sorter  been  at  outs, 
an'  bein'  as  we  are  nigh  neighbors  ag'in  I  thought 
I'd  come  forward  like  a  man  an'  tell  you  that,  as 
far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  sorry  we  hain't  been  able 
to  git  on  better  before  this,  an'  that  I  hain't  no 
ill- will  any  longer,  an'  am  willin'  to  stack  arms  and 
declare  peace.'  " 

"Good  for  Jeff!"  Paul  chuckled;  "he  unloaded, 
didn't  he?" 

"You  wait  till  I  git  through,"  Amanda  tittered 
under   her   red,   crinkled   hand.      "When   Jeff   got 

347 


Paul     Run  del 

that  out  Hoag  sorter  lifted  his  reins,  shoved  his 
heels  ag'in'  his  hoss  an'  snorted.  Then  I  heerd  'im 
say:  'You  look  out  for  yourself,  an'  I'll  do  the 
same.' 

"He  was  movin'  on,  when  Jeff  fairly  wrenched 
the  gate  off  its  hinges  an'  plunged  out.  In  a  second 
he  had  the  hoss  by  the  bridle,  an'  was  jerkin'  it 
back  on  its  haunches. 

"  'Say,'  he  yelled  at  Hoag,  when  the  hoss  got  still, 
'that  thar's  the  fust  an'  only  apology  I  ever  made 
to  a  livin'  man,  an'  if  you  don't  accept  it,  and  accept 
it  quick,  I'll  have  you  off  that  hoss  an'  under  my 
feet,  whar  I'll  stomp  some  politeness  into  you.' 

"Lord,  I  was  scared!"  Amanda  continued,  as  she 
joined  in  her  nephew's  laugh;  "for  Jim  Hoag  was 
mad  enough  to  eat  a  keg  o'  nails  without  chawin' 
'em.  I  was  on  the  p'int  o'  runnin'  'twixt  the  two 
when  Hoag  sobered  down. 

"  'I  don't  want  no  trouble  with  you,  Jeff,'  he 
said.     'Let  loose  my  bridle.    I  want  to  go  on  home.' 

"  'Well,  do  you  accept?'  I  heard  Jeff  yellin'  at  'im, 
while  he  still  hung  to  the  reins, 

"  'Yes,  I  accept;  I  don't  want  no  fuss,'  Hoag  said, 
an'  Jeff  let  the  hoss  loose  an'  stood  out  o'  the  way. 

"  'It's  a  good  thing  you  changed  your  mind,'  he 
called  after  Hoag,  who  was  joggin'  on.  'I've  sorter 
turned  over  a  new  leaf,  but  I  hain't  fastened  it 
down  any  too  tight.  I  could  put  up  with  some 
things  from  you,  but  you  can't  spit  on  my  apology.'  " 

Paul  laughed  almost  immoderately.  ' '  Socrates  and 
Jesus  Christ  would  have  laid  down  different  rules 
for  human  conduct  if  they  had  known  those  two 
men,"  he  said,  as  he  went  to  the  rear  door  and 
looked  down  toward  his  mother. 

348 


Paul      Rundel 

Amanda  followed  him.  "Jim  Hoag  ain't  the 
only  person  round  here  that's  got  a  mean  spirit," 
she  commented.  "I'm  thinkin'  now  about  Tobe 
Williams's  wife,  Came;  an'  Jeff  ain't  the  only  one 
with  a  hot  temper — I'm  thinkin'  now  about  myself.'' 

"You!"  Paul  smiled.  "You  were  always  as 
pleasing  as  a  basket  of  chips." 

"You  don't  know  me,  boy."  Amanda  subdued  an 
inclination  to  smile.  "I  don't  reckon  I  git  mad 
oftener  than  once  a  year,  but  when  I  do  I  take  a 
day  off  an'  raise  enough  sand  to  build  a  court-house. 
I've  already  had  my  annual  picnic  since  I  got 
back." 

"I'm  sure  you  are  joking  now,"  Paul  said,  ex- 
perimentally, an  expression  of  amused  curiosity 
clutching  his  face.  "You  couldn't  have  got  angry 
at  Mrs.  Williams." 

"Didn't  I,  though — the  triflin'  hussy!  She  driv' 
by  the  day  we  was  housed  in  that  pore  shack  of  a 
cabin,  an'  put  up  a  tale  about  needin'  somebody 
to  help  'er  out  with  her  house-work  an'  bein'  in  sech 
a  plight  with  her  big  brood  o'  children  that  I  swal- 
lowed my  pride  an'  agreed  to  help  'er.  I  mention 
pride  because  me'n  Carrie  went  to  school  together 
an'  had  the  same  beaus.  She  roped  one  in,  an'  is 
entirely  welcome  to  'im,  the  Lord  knows  if  she 
doesn't.  Yes,  I  swallowed  my  pride  an'  went. 
I  never  hired  out  before,  but  I  went.  I  reckon 
we  was  both  lookin'  at  the  thing  different.  I  had 
the  feelin'  that  I  was  jest,  you  know,  helpin'  a  old 
friend  out  of  a  tight;  an'  well,  I  reckon,  from  the 
outcome,  that  Carrie  thought  she  had  hired  a 
nigger  wench." 

"Oh,  no,  don't  put  it  that  way,"  Paul  protested, 
349 


Paul     Run  del 

half  seriously,  though  his  aunt's  unwonted  gravity 
amused  him  highly. 

"Well,. she  acted  plumb  like  it,"  Amanda  averred, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  flashing.  "All  the  way 
out  to  her  house  she  was  talkin'  about  Jeff's  flat 
come-down,  an'  Addie's  sad  looks,  an' — an',  above 
all,  our  cabin.  Said  thar  was  a  better  one  behind 
the  barn,  on  her  land,  but  she  believed  Tobe  was 
goin'  to  pack  fodder  in  it,  an'  so  she  reckoned  we'd 
as  well  not  apply'for  it.  She  kept  talkin'  about  this 
here  new  cottage.  She'd  been  through  it,  she  said, 
an'  it  was  fine,  an'  no  doubt  Bob  Mayburn  would 
rent  it  to  some  rich  town  family  to  pass  the  summers 
in.  In  that  case  she  thought  we'd  naturally  feel  un- 
comfortable— she  knowed  she  would  if  she  was  in 
our  fix,  an'  have  to  live  right  up  ag'in'  folks  that 
was  so  different.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Paul,  she  got 
me  so  all-fired  hot  that  I  wanted  to  jimip  over  the 
buggy- wheels  an'  walk  back  home.  I'd  'a'  done  it, 
too,  but  for  one  thing." 

"What  was  that?"  Paul  inquired,  still  amused. 

"Pride,"  was  the  half -laughing  answer.  "Do  you 
know  the  awkwardest  predicament  on  earth  is  to 
git  whar  you  are  as  mad  as  old  Harry,  an'  at  the 
same  time  would  rather  die  on  the  rack  than  let 
it  be  knowed?  Well,  that  woman  had  me  in  that 
fix.  She  was  playin'  with  me  like  a  kitten  with  a 
dusty  June-bug.  She  knowed  what  she  was  say  in' 
all  right,  an'  she  knowed,  too,  that  I  wouldn't  slap 
'er  in  the  mouth — because  I  was  too  much  of  a 
lady.  But  if  she  didn't  cut  gaps  in  me  an'  rub  brine 
in  no  woman  ever  clawed  an'  scratched  another." 

"Too  bad!"  Paul  said,  biting  his  lips.  "I  am 
wondering  how  it  ended." 

350 


Paul     R  nil  d  e  1 

"You  may  well  wonder,"  Amanda  went  on.  "I 
wanted  to  throw  up  the  job,  but  was  ashamed  to 
let  'er  see  how  mad  I  was.  It  was  even  wuss  after 
we  got  to  her  house.  She  tuck  me  straight  to  the 
kitchen,  an'  with  the  air  of  a  queen  she  p'inted  to 
the  nastiest  lot  o'  pots  an'  pans  you  ever  laid  eyes 
on,  an'  said  she  reckoned  I'd  have  to  give  'em  a 
good  scrubbin'  fust,  as  they  was  caked  with  grease. 
Then  she  told  me  what  she  wanted  for  supper. 
Tobe  Hked  string-beans,  an'  none  'had  been  fetched 
from  the  patch,  an'  I'd  have  plenty  o'  time  to  pick 
'em,  an'  so  on,  an'  so  on.  I  saw  I  was  in  a  hole 
an'  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it.  But  when  I  come 
to  put  the  supper  on  the  table  that  she  had  told  her 
little  girl  to  set  the  plates  on  I  seed  thar  was  just 
places  fixed  for  the  family.  You  see,  she  thought 
I'd  wait  till  that  triflin'  gang  was  through  an'  set 
down  to  scraps.  Thar  was  one  other  thing  Carrie 
Williams  expected  to  happen,  but  it  didn't  take 
place." 

"She  expected  you  to  put  poison  in  the  food?" 
Paul  jested. 

"She  expected  me  to  wait  on  'em — to  fetch  the 
grub  from  the  stove  to  the  table  an'  stick  it  under 
their  noses,  but  I  didn't.  I  took  my  seat  on  the 
kitchen  door-step.  I  heard  'er  callin',  but  I  was  deef 
as  a  post.  One  of  the  gals  come  an'  told  me  her  ma 
said  they  wanted  a  hot  pone  o'  bread,  an'  I  told  'er 
it  was  in  the  stove,  an'  if  she  didn't  hurry  it  would 
burn — that  I  smelt  it  already.  When  supper  was 
over  Carrie  come  an'  told  me  they  was  finished. 
She  said  she  was  sorry  all  the  preserves  w^as  ate  up, 
but  that  the  children  was  greedy  an'  hard  to  control 
when  sweet  things  was  in  sight.    I  told  her  I  didn't 

351 


Paul     Rundel 

feel  like  eatin' — that  I  never  did  when  I  worked  over 
my  own  cookin',  an'  I  didn't  touch  a  bite.  I  set  in 
to  washin'  the  dishes  an'  she  hung  about,  still  talkin'. 
Her  main  theme  was  the  old  times  an'  how  many  of 
our  crowd  of  girls  had  been  unable  to  keep  pace  an' 
float  with  her,  an'  the  few  that  was  left  on  top. 
Then  she  mentioned  you." 

"Me!    I  thought  I'd  get  my  share,"  Paul  smiled. 

"Oh,  she  didn't  have  nothin'  but  praise  for  you," 
Amanda  returned.  "In  fact,  she  thought  that 
would  rankle.  She  had  the  idea  that  you  was 
plumb  through  with  us,  an'  said  it  must  make  us 
ashamed  to  be  so  close  to  you  an'  the  fine  folks 
at  Hoag's.  I  was  tempted  to  hit  'er  betwixt  the  eyes 
one  good  lick  to  make  'er  see  straight,  but  I  helt 
in.     I  got  even,  though — oh,  I  got  even!" 

"You  say  you  did!  Tell  me  about  it,"  Paul  cried, 
highly  amused. 

"We  was  all  settin'  in  the  yard,"  Amanda  con- 
tinued, "an'  was  jest  fixin'  to  go  to  bed,  when 
Jeff  come,  all  out  o'  breath,  an'  told  us  the  news 
about  what  you'd  done,  an'  that  I  was  wanted 
back  home  to  help  move.  I  ain't  sure  the  Lord 
will  ever  forgive  me,  Paul,  but  I  never  felt  so  good 
in  all  my  life  as  I  did  at  the  sight  o'  that  woman. 
She  was  as  limp  as  a  wet  rag,  an'  fairly  keeled 
over.  She  actually  tried  to  stop  Jeff  from  talkin', 
but  I  pinned  'im  down  an'  made  'im  tell  it  over 
an'  over.  If  I  axed  'im  one  question  about  the  new 
cottage  an'  new  furniture  I  did  a  hundred.  I  went 
furder'n  that.  I  looked  at  the  house  they  live  in — 
it's  jest  a  four-room  shack,  you  know,  made  of  up- 
an'-down  boards  unpainted  an'  unsealed — an'  axed  'er 
if  it  wasn't  awful  cold  in  winter,   an'  if  the  roof 

352 


Paul     Rundel 

didn't  sag  too  much  for  safety,  an'  whar  she  put 
the  beds  when  it  leaked.  The  purty  part  of  it 
was  that  Tobe  (I  wish  I  could  'a'  spared  him, 
for  he's  nice  an'  plain  as  an  old  shoe)  kept  agreein' 
with  me,  an'  braggin'  on  our  new  house,  an'  sayin' 
that  he  was  too  hard  up  to  better  'imself.  Carrie 
got  so  mad  she  plumb  lost  her  grip,  an'  told  'im 
to  dry  up,  an'  then  she  flounced  into  the  house 
an'  wouldn't  come  out  to  say  good-by.  Paul, 
you  may  preach  your  human-love  idea  till  you 
are  black  in  the  face,  but  if  it  works  on  a  woman 
like  Carrie  Williams  it  will  be  when  she's  tied 
hand  an'  foot  an'  soaked  with  chloroform.  I  try 
not  to  let  this  nice  place  an'  my  pride  in  you  spoil 
me.  I  don't  think  anybody  could  consider  me  stuck- 
up,  but  if  Carrie  Williams  calls — which  she  is  sure 
to  do — I'll  show  'er  every  single  item  about  the 
place,  an'  remind  'er  how  much  she  praised  it  before 
we  got  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOAG  had  become  so  nervous  and  low-spirited 
that  he  found  himself  every  day  waking  ear- 
lier than  usual.  The  dusky  shadows  of  night  were 
still  hovering  over  the  earth  one  morning  in  August 
when,  being  unable  to  return  to  sleep,  he  rose  and 
went  to  a  window  and  looked  out.  He  was  pre- 
paring to  shave  himself  when  he  happened  to  see 
a  man  leaning  against  the  front  fence  watching  the 
house  attentively. 

"It  looks  like  Purvynes,"  Hoag  mused.  "I 
wonder  what  on  earth  the  fellow  wants.  This  cer- 
tainly ain't  in  his  regular  beat." 

Hoag  put  down  his  mug  and  brush,  listened 
to  see  if  Jack  and  his  grandmother  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room  were  awake,  then,  hearing  no  sound 
in  that  part  of  the  house,  he  cautiously  tiptoed 
out  into  the  corridor,  opened  the  front  door,  and 
crossed  the  veranda  to  the  lawn.  He  now  saw  that 
the  man  was  indeed  Purvynes. 

"Some  new  trouble  may  be  brewin',"  Hoag  sur- 
mised, "or  he  wouldn't  be  out  as  early  as  this." 

Purvynes  saw  him  approaching  and  moved  along 
the  fence  to  the  gate,  where  he  stood  waiting,  a  stare 
of  subdued  excitement  blended  with  other  emotions 
in  his  dim  gray  eyes.  His  hair  was  tousled,  his 
grizzled  head  untrimmed,  and  there  were  shadows, 
lines,  and  angles  in  his  sallow  visage. 

354 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

"Early  for  you  to  be  so  far  from  home,  ain't  it?" 
was  Hoag's  introductory  question. 

"I  reckon  it  is,  Cap,"  the  man  answered,  sheep- 
ishly, his  Hps  quivering.  "I  didn't  know  whether 
you  was  here  or  off  in  Atlanta,  but — but  I  thought 
I'd  walk  over  an'  see.  I've  been  awake  for  an  hour 
or  more — in  fact,  I  hardly  closed  my  eyes  last  night. 
My  women  folks  are  nigh  distracted.  Cap.  I  was 
here  yesterday,  but  Cato  said  you  was  over  at  your 
new  mill.  I'd  'a'  come  after  supper,  if  my  women 
folks  hadn't  been  afraid  to  be  left  alone  in  the  dark." 

"Huh!  I  see." 

There  was  an  ominous  pause.  It  was  as  if  Hoag 
dreaded  further  revelations.  He  felt  sure  that  some- 
thing decidedly  unpleasant  lay  beneath  the  man's 
perturbed  exterior.  For  once  in  his  life  Hoag  failed 
to  show  irritation,  and  his  next  question  was  put 
almost  in  the  tone  of  entreaty. 

"What's  got  into  you  an'  them  all  of  a  sudden?" 
he  faltered. 

"You  may  well  ask  it,"  Purvynes  said  with  a 
voluminous  sigh.  "A  fellow  may  try  to  put  on  a 
brave  front,  an'  act  unconcerned  when  trouble's  in 
the  wind,  but  if  he's  got  a  gang  o'  crazy  women  an' 
children  hangin'  on  to  his  shirt-tail  he  is  in  a 
fix." 

"Well,  what  is  it — what  is  it?"  Hoag  demanded, 
with  staccato  asperity  born  of  his  growing  anxiety. 

For  answer  Purvynes  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of 
his  patched  and  tattered  coat  and  produced  a  folded 
sheet  of  foolscap  paper  which  he  awkwardly  at- 
tempted to  spread  out  against  the  palings  of  the 
fence. 

"Summoned  to  court?"  Hoag  smiled,  riding  a 
3SS 


Paul     Run  del 

wave  of  sudden  relief.  "Ah,  I  see — moonshinin'. 
Well,  you  needn't  let  that  bother  you.  We'll  all 
stick  together  an'  swear  black  is  white.  I  see. 
You  are  afeard  them  young  devils  may  turn  ag'in' 
us  out  o'  spite,  but  I  can  fix  all  that.  You  just  lie 
low,  an' — " 

"God  knows  'tain't  that!"  Purvynes  held  the 
quivering  sheet  open.  "If  that  was  all  Pd  not 
bother;  I  wouldn't  mind  goin'  to  Atlanta  again, 
but  we  are  up  ag'in'  som'n  a  sight  worse.  What 
do  you  think  o'  this  paper?" 

Hoag  took  the  sheet,  and  looked  at  it  with  a 
dull,  widening  stare.  It  was  headed  by  the  crude 
design  of  two  cross-bones  and  a  skull  which  his 
"klan"  had  used  in  frightening  the  negroes  with 
gruesome  threats  and  warnings.  Beneath  the  draw- 
ing was  the  following: 

TO   AWL   IT   CONSERNS 

This  is  to  inform  the  grate  White  mens  klan  that  the  Blak 
Foxes  has  met  in  secret  session  and  took  axion  to  protect  ther 
rights.  Paysyence  has  seased  to  bee  a  vurture.  The  white 
klan  has  lernt  the  foxes  the  trick  of  how  to  work  in  the  dark. 
Wait  and  see  the  mighty  fall.  We  know  who  the  Captin  is  at 
last.  We  also  know  some  of  his  main  followers  who  is  workin 
for  his  smile  and  his  gold.  We  don't  want  his  cash.  We  are 
after  his  meat  and  bones.  Hel  will  take  his  sole.  His  body 
wil  hang  for  crows  to  peck  out  the  eyes.  No  power  above  or 
below  this  earth  can  save  him.  He  wil  never  know  the  day  or 
the  hour.  But  his  doom  is  seeled.  They  need  Marse  Jimmy 
down  where  the  worm  dyeth  not.  He  has  sowed  his  seed,  and 
his  harvest  is  rype.     Woe  unto  hym  and  awl  his  gang. 

Signed  in  the  blood  of  Blak  Buck  the  Captin  of  the  Foxes. 

his 

Blak  X  Buck 

mark. 

356 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e  1 

The  sheet  of  paper  shook,  though  the  morning 
air  was  as  still  as  a  vacuum.  Hoag  was  as  white 
as  death  could  have  made  him.  He  silently  folded 
the  paper  and  handed  it  back.  But  Purvynes 
waved  it  aside  with  a  dumb  gesture  of  despair. 

"Whar  did  you  git  it?"  finally  fell  from  Hoag's 
lips. 

"It  was  tacked  up  on  my  corn-crib.  I  seed  it 
from  the  kitchen  window  yesterday  mornin'  'fore 
breakfast.     I  went  out  an'  pulled  it  down." 

Hoag  had  never  attempted  a  more  fragile  sneer. 
"An'  you  let  a  puny  thing  like  that  scare  you  out 
o'  your  socks,"  he  said,  flamboyantly. 

Purvynes's  hat-brim  went  down  and  his  eyes  were 
not  visible  to  the  desperately  alert  gaze  of  his  com- 
panion. "I  can  take  my  own  medicine,  Cap,"  he 
answered,  doggedly,  "but  I  can't  manage  women. 
They  read  the  thing  'fore  I  could  hide  it,  an'  you 
know  what  excited  women  would  do  at  the  sight  of 
a  sheet  like  that.  My  wife's  been  ag'in'  our  doin's 
all  along,  anyway." 

Hoag  perused  the  sheet  again,  his  putty-like  lips 
moving,  as  was  his  habit  when  reading. 

"How  do  you  reckon,"  he  glanced  at  the  drawn 
face  beside  him,  "how  do  you  reckon  they  got  on  to 
me  as — as  the  main  leader?" 

Purvynes  was  quite  sure  he  could  answer  the  ques- 
tion. ' '  Nape  Welborne's  gang  give  it  away.  They've 
been  braggin'  right  an'  left  about  how  Nape  forced 
you  to  back  down  that  night.  They've  been  drunk 
an'  talked  'fore  black  an'  white  like  a  pack  o'  fools." 

"But  from  this,"  Hoag  tapped  the  fence  with  the 
folded  sheet,  "it  looks  like  the  nigger  that  wrote 
this  thinks  I  am  still  the  head." 

357 


Paul     Rundel 

"An'  so  much  the  worse,"  Purvynes  moaned,  and 
he  clutched  the  fence  nervously  as  if  to  steady 
himself.  '  "You  an'  me  an'  all  us  old  members  has 
to  suffer  for  the  drunken  pranks  of  them  young 
roustabouts.  When  they  shot  up  nigger-town  last 
week,  an'  abused  the  women  an'  children,  the 
darkies  laid  it  at  our  door.  In  fact,  that  is  the 
cause  of  this  very  move.  It  was  the  last  straw,  as 
the  sayin'  is.  They've  got  plumb  desperate,  an' 
when  niggers  work  underhand  they  will  resort  to 
anything.  It's  quar,  as  my  wife  says,  that  we  never 
thought  they  might  turn  the  tables  an'  begin  our 
own  game." 

Hoag  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  made  no  com- 
ment. His  shaggy  brows  had  met  and  overlapped. 
His  eyes  had  the  glare  of  a  beast  at  bay. 

"My  wife  thought" — Purvynes  evidently  felt  that 
the  point  was  a  dehcate  one,  but  he  made  it  with 
more  ease  than  he  could  have  done  on  any  former 
occasion— "she  thought  maybe  yoiir  boy  Henry 
might  have  got  onto  you  an'  talked  reckless,  but 
if  he  did.  Cap,  it  was  some  time  ago,  for  the  boy 
ain't  like  he  used  to  be.  He's  more  serious-Hke. 
I  got  it  straight  from  one  o'  the  gang  he  used  to 
run  with  that  he's  really  quit  his  old  ways  an'  gone 
to  work." 

"It's  Nape  Welbome's  lay-out,"  Hoag  declared. 
"They've  done  it  out  o'  pure  spite  an'  enmity  ag'in' 

me." 

Purvynes  had  averted  his  eyes;  he  seemed  to  feel 
that  the  conversation  was  drifting  into  useless  waters, 
so  far  as  he  was  personally  concerned.  "Well,  I 
just  come  over.  Cap,  to  ask  you  what  you  think  / 
ought  to  do/'  he  finally  got  out,  as  if  aided  by  his 

3S8 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

clutch  on  the  fence,  to  which  he  clung  quite  auto- 
matically. 

"yow?"  Hoag  emphasized  the  word. 

"Why,  yes,  me.  You  see,  Cap,  my  women  say 
they  simply  won't  stay  here  a  single  day  longer. 
They  are  scared  as  nigh  death  as  any  folks  you 
ever  saw.  That's  why  I  come  to  you  for — for 
advice  an'  to  ax  a  favor.  I'm  in  an  a.wiu\  plight. 
I  owe  a  good  deal  on  my  land.  My  brother  is  well 
fixed,  out  in  Texas,  you  know,  an'  I  can  move  thar, 
but  I'll  have  to  raise  some  ready  cash.  My  farm 
would  be  good  for  another  loan,  an'  you  are  the 
only  money-lender  I  know.  You  see,  you  know 
why  I  have  to  have  the  money,  an'  I  couldn't  ex- 
plain so  well  to  a  bank.     So  my  wife  said — " 

"I  don't  care  what  she  said."  Hoag's  mind 
seemed  to  be  making  rapid  flights  to  and  from 
his  own  numerous  holdings.  "If  you  think  you 
got  anything  at  stake,  look  at  me,"  he  plunged, 
dejectedly.  "Why,  the  black  imps  could  — 
could—" 

"I  ain't  carin'  about  my  farm,"  Purvynes  broke 
in  irrelevantly.  "It's  peace  of  mind  I  want,  an' 
freedom  from  the  awful  chatter  of  my  folks.  Even 
the  little  ones  are  scared  half  to  death.  They've 
picked  up  a  word  here  an'  thar  an'  follow  me  about 
whimperin'  an'  beggin'  to  be  tuck  to  a  place  of 
safety.  Women  may  know  how  to  scrub  an'  cook 
an'  sew,  but  they  can't  keep  a  secret  like  our'n 
when  they  are  under  pressure  like  this.  The  wives 
of  all  the  old  klan — mark  my  words — will  be  to- 
gether before  twelve  o'clock  to-day.  They  will 
brand  the'rselves  an'  us  by  it,  but  they  won't  care 
a  red  cent.     They'd  go  to  the  gallows  in  a  bunch 

3S9 


Paul     Rundel 

if  they  could  talk  about  it  beforehand.  Cap,  a 
hundred  dollars  is  all  I  need,  an' — " 

"Don't  call  me  Cap  no  more,"  Hoag  snapped, 
angrily,  "an'  don't  ask  me  for  money,  either,  I 
hain't  got  none  to  lend.  Besides,  you  can't  leave 
your  property  no  more  than  I  can  mine.  We've 
got  to  stay  an ' — ' ' 

"Your  wife's  dead.  Cap — Jim,  I  mean — an'  you 
kin  talk,  but  my  folks  will  git  away  from  these 
mountains  if  they  have  to  foot  it  on  ragged  uppers. 
They  simply  won't  stay.  Jim,  my  trouble  is  a 
sight  deeper  than  I've  admitted.  I — I  feel  like  a 
dead  man  that  nobody  cares  enough  about  to 
bury.  Say,  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you,  an'  then  I  know  you 
will  pity  me  if  it  is  in  you  to  pity  any  man.  Jim, 
I  always  thought  my  wife  loved  me  as  much  as 
the  average  woman  loves  the  father  of  her  children ; 
but  last  night — last  night,  away  late,  when  she 
couldn't  sleep,  she  come  over  to  my  bed  an'  set 
down  on  the  rail  an'  talked  straighter  than  she  ever 
has  in  her  life.  Jim,  she  said — she  said  she  thought 
I  ought  to  be  willin'  to  go  away  for  good  an'  all, 
an'  leave  'er  an'  the  children,  since  I  was  respon- 
sible for  this  calamity.  She  said  she  was  sure  her 
an'  the  children  would  be  let  alone  if  I'd  go  clean 
off  an'  never  show  up  ag'in,  an'  that  she'd  rather 
work  'er  fingers  to  the  bone  than  be  bothered  like 
she  is.  Lord,  Lord,  Jim,  I  felt  so  awful  that  I 
actually  cried  an'  begged  for  mercy  like  a  whipped 
child.  I'd  always  thought  she  was  a  soft-hearted, 
lovin'  woman,  but  she  was  as  hard  as  flint.  She  said 
she'd  rather  never  lay  eyes  on  me  ag'in  than  have 
this  thing  hangin'  over  her  an'  the  children.  She 
finally  agreed,  if  I'd  git  the  money  from  you  an' 

360 


Paul     R  u  n  d  cl 

leave  at  once,  that  maybe  her  an'  the  rest  would 
follow.  So  that's  why  I  come  to  see  you.  Jim,  a 
rich  man  Hke  you  can  rake  up  a  small  amount 
like  that  to  accommodate  an  old — " 

"And  leave  inc  with  the  bag  to  hold."  Hoag's 
misery  was  eager  for  any  sort  of  company.  "I 
won't  lend  you  a  cent — not  a  cent!"  he  snorted. 
"We've  got  to — to  fight  this  thing  out.  No  bunch 
o'  lazy  niggers  can  scare  the  life  out  o'  me." 

"But  we  are  tied  hand  an'  foot,  Jim,"  Purvynes 
faltered.  "The  black  brain  that  writ  that  warnin' 
is  equal  to  a  white  man's  when  it  comes  to  that 
sort  o'  warfare.  I  know  the  threat  word  for  word 
by  heart.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  an'  see  the  skull 
an'  bones.  Even  if  we  went  to  law  for  protection 
we'd  have  to  show  that  sheet,  an'  you  wouldn't 
want  to  do  that  as  it  stands,  an'  I  don't  believe 
all  the  Governor's  guards  in  the  State  could  help 
us  out,  for  in  these  mountains  the  niggers  kin 
stay  under  cover  an'  pick  us  off  one  by  one  as  we 
walk  about,  like  sharpshooters  lyin'  in  the  weeds 
an'  behind  trees  an'  rocks.  Then  thar  is  a  danger 
that  maybe  you  hain't  thought  of." 

"What's  that?"  Hoag  asked,  with  a  dumb  stare 
into  the  other's  waxlike  countenance. 

' '  Why,  if  they  take  a  notion  they  kin  poison  all  the 
drinkin' -water  anywhars  about.  Niggers  don't  look 
far  ahead.  They  wouldn't  even  think  o'  the  wide- 
spread results  to  them  as  well  as  us." 

A  desperate  look  of  conviction  crept  across 
Hoag's  eyes.  At  this  juncture  he  heard  the  front 
door  of  his  house  open,  and,  turning,  he  saw  Jack 
come  out  on  the  veranda  and  eagerly  start  down 
the  steps  toward  him. 

24  361 


Paul     Rundel 

"Stay  thar!"  Hoag  waved  his  hand  dejectedly. 
"I'm  comin'  up  right  away." 

Jack  paused  on  the  steps,  a  beautiful  figure  with 
supple,  slender  limbs,  high,  white  brow  under  wav- 
ing curls.  Even  at  that  distance,  and  ^through  the 
lowering  mists  which  lay  on  the  grass  like  downy 
feathers  dropped  from  the  wings  of  dawn,  the  two 
men  marked  the  boy's  expression  of  startled  surprise 
over  being  so  peremptorily  stopped.  He  sat  down 
on  the  steps,  his  beautiful  eyes  fixed  inquiringly  on 
his  father. 

"I'd  send  that  boy  off,  anyway,"  Purvynes  said, 
as  if  thinking  for  himself. 

"You  say  you  would!"  slowly  and  from  a  mouth 
that  twitched.      "What  do  you  mean  by — that?" 

"I  mean  all  the  niggers  know  how  you  dote  on 
'im,  Jim.  I've  heard  folks  say  that  they  didn't 
believe  you  ever  loved  any  other  human  alive  or 
dead.  The  niggers  that  got  up  that  warnin'  wouldn't 
hesitate  to  strike  at  you  even  through  a  purty 
innocent  chap  Hke  that." 

Hoag  dropped  his  stare  to  the  ground.  He  clutched 
a  paling  with  a  pulseless  hand  and  leaned  forward. 
"I  reckon  maybe  you  are  right,"  he  muttered. 
"I've  heard  of  'em  doin'  the  Hke,  even  kidnappin' 
an'  makin'  threats  of  bodily  torture." 

Hoag  glanced  at  his  son  again,  and,  catching  his 
eyes,  he  waved  his  hand  and  forced  a  smile.  "I'm 
comin'!"  he  called  out.  "See  if  our  breakfast  is 
ready.     We'll  have  it  together." 

He  was  turning  away  as  if  forgetful  of  the  caller's 
presence,  when  Purvynes  stopped  him. 

"What  about  that  money,  Jim?"  he  inquired, 
slowly,  desperately. 

362 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  cl 

"I  can't  let  you  have  it,"  was  Hoag's  ultimatiim, 
in  a  rising  tone  of  blended  despair  and  suriiness. 
"We've  got  to  fix  some  way  to  head  this  thing  off 
an'  must  stand  together.  Your  folks  will  have  to  be 
reasonable.     I'll  come  over  an'  talk  to — " 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  in  rapid-fire.  "Don't  come 
about,  Jim.  That  would  scare  'em  worse  than  ever. 
They  was  afraid  some  nigger  might  see  me  here 
this  momin',  an'  if  you  was  to  come — " 

"Huh,  I'll  be  looked  on  like  a  leper  in  a  pest-house 
'fore  long,  I  reckon!"  Hoag  snarled,  but  perhaps 
not  so  much  from  anger  as  from  a  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  the  remark. 

"Well,  don't  come,  Jim,"  Purvynes  repeated, 
bluntly.  "If  you  hain't  got  no  money  for  me,  all 
well  an'  good,  but  don't  come  about.  My  women 
are  crazy,  an'  the  sight  of  you  wouldn't  help  at  all." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  the  few  days  immediately  following  this  in- 
cident Hoag  became  convinced  that  he  had 
reached  the  gravest  crisis  of  his  career.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  experience  his  helplessness  was  as 
real  a  thing  as  had  been  his  prowess  in  the  past.  A 
drab  veil  reeking  with  despair  seemed  to  hang  be- 
tween him  and  every  visible  object.  He  looked  in 
stunned  amazement  at  the  people  who  were  going 
on  with  their  daily  duties  as  if  nothing  serious  had 
happened  or  was  impending.  He  saw  them  smile, 
heard  them  laugh,  and  noted  their  interest  in  the 
smallest  details. 

Death !  He  had  been  absolutely  blind  to  its  claims, 
but  now  it  had  taken  a  grim  clutch  upon  his  mind. 
It  was  made  plain  by  men  whom  he  had  seen  die 
— ^yes,  by  men  whom  he  had  caused  to  die.  Their 
pleadings  rang  in  his  ears,  and  they  themselves 
seemed  to  dog  his  steps  like  vague  shapes  from  a 
persistent  nightmare. 

In  some  unaccountable  way  he  was  conscious  of 
a  sense  of  being  less  and  less  attached  to  his  body. 
There  were  moments  in  which  he  felt  that  his  limbs 
were  dead,  while  he  himself  was  as  vital  as  ever. 
He  was  in  a  sort  of  conscious  trance,  in  which  his 
soul  was  trying  to  break  the  bonds  of  the  flesh, 
and  flee  to  some  point  of  safety  which  was  con- 
stantly appearing  and  vanishing. 

Above  all,  the  sight  of  his  child  playing  about 
364 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

the  place  was  the  most  incongruous.  He  avoided 
joining  Jack  on  the  lawn  at  any  time,  fearing  that 
the  act  might  result  in  disaster  of  some  easily  com- 
prehensible sort.  But  within  the  house  he  tried 
to  atone  for  the  neglect  by  a  surplus  of  affection. 
He  would  hold  the  boy  in  his  arms  for  hours  at  a 
time  and  fondle  him  as  he  had  never  fondled  him 
before.  He  became  desperate  in  his  confinement 
to  the  house,  and  one  day  he  decided  that  he  would 
visit  some  of  the  most  faithful  of  his  friends,  and  on 
his  horse  he  started  out.  He  rode  from  farm  to 
farm,  but  soon  noticed  that  a  rare  thing  was 
happening.  Invariably  the  women,  like  awed,  im- 
pounded cattle,  would  come  to  the  doors,  and  with 
downcast  eyes  and  halting  voices  inform  him  that 
their  fathers  or  husbands  were  away.  At  one  farm 
he  saw  Bert  Wilson,  the  owner,  and  one  of  the  older 
members  of  the  klan,  on  the  bank  of  the  little  creek 
which  ran  through  his  place,  and  hitching  his  horse 
to  the  rail  fence,  Hoag,  unnoticed  by  the  farmer, 
climbed  over  and  approached  him.  Wilson  was 
fishing,  and  with  his  eyes  on  his  rod  failed  to  see 
Hoag  till  he  was  suddenly  addressed. 

"Hello,  what  sort  o'  luck?"  Hoag  asked,  assuming 
a  Hghtness  of  tone  and  mien  that  was  foreign  to  his 
habit. 

The  man  was  heavy-set,  florid,  unbearded,  and 
past  middle  age.  He  turned  suddenly;  his  blue  eyes 
flashed  and  glowed;  he  looked  toward  the  roof  of 
his  house  above  the  thicket  in  the  distance  and 
furtively  bent  his  neck  to  view  the  road  as  if  fearful 
of  being  seen. 

"Oh,  just  so  so!"  he  answered,  doggedly. 

"What  sort  o'  bait  are  you  usin'?" 
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Paul     Rundel 

"Crickets  an'  grasshoppers.  The  traps  up  at 
your  mill  catch  all  the  big  fish.  Minnows  an' 
suckers  are  good  enough  for  us  common  folks,  Jim 
Hoag." 

"I'm  goin'  to  do  away  with  them  traps,  Bert," 
Hoag  said,  diplomatically,  and  he  sank  down  on 
the  grass,  and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
he  took  out  two  cigars  and  some  matches.  "Have 
a  smoke,"  he  said,  holding  a  cigar  toward  the 
fisherman. 

"No,  thanky."  Wilson  drew  his  line  from  the 
water  and  looked  at  the  hook.  Hoag  noted,  with 
a  touch  of  dismay,  that  the  hook  held  no  vestige 
of  bait,  and  yet  the  fisherman  gravely  lowered  it 
into  the  water  and  stood  regarding  it  with  a  sullen 
stare. 

"Hain't  quit  smokin',  have  you?" 

Wilson  stole  another  look  at  the  road,  and  al- 
lowed his  glance  to  sweep  on  to  his  house.  Then 
he  raised  his  rod,  caught  the  swinging  line  in  a  firm 
grip,  and  glared  at  the  face  in  the  cloud  of  blue 
smoke. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  use  none  o'  yore  tobacco, 
Jim  Hoag."  The  words  sank  deep  into  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  listener. 

"You  say  you  ain't!"  Hoag  shrank  visibly. 
Desperate  compromises  filtered  into  his  brain,  only 
to  be  discarded.  "Say,  Bert,  what's  got  into  you, 
anyway?" 

The  fat  man  hesitated.  His  cheeks  and  brow 
flushed  red. 

"This  much  has  got  into  me,  Hoag,"  he  began, 
"an'  I'm  man  enough  to  speak  out  open.  Us  fel- 
lows have  been  folio  win'  your  lead  like  a  damned 

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Paul     Rundel 

lot  o'  idiotic  sheep.  You  always  talked  up  protec- 
tion, protection  to  our  women  an'  homes,  when  it 
now  looks  like  you  was  just  doin'  it  to  feel  your 
importance  as  a  leader  in  some'n  or  other.  You 
kept  the  thing  a-goin',  rid  it  like  a  hobby-hoss. 
Time  after  time  my  judgment  told  me  to  stay  out 
o'  the  raids  you  instigated,  but  thar  was  always  a 
fool  notion  among  us  that  what  one  done  all  had 
to  do  or  be  disgraced,  an'  so  we  went  on  until  natural 
hatred  o'  you  an'  your  bull-headed  game  has  brought 
down  this  calamity.  Now,  what  I  ask,  an'  what 
a  lot  more  of  us  ask,  is  fur  you  to  tal^e  your  medicine 
like  a  man,  an'  not  pull  us  into  the  scrape.  If 
you  will  do  this,  all  well  an'  good.  You  are  the 
only  one  singled  out  so  far,  an'  if  you  will  stay  away 
from  the  rest  of  us,  an'  not  draw  fire  on  us,  all  may 
go  well;  but,  Jim  Hoag — I  reckon  it's  my  Scotch 
blood  a-talkin'  now — if  you  don't  do  it,  as  God 
is  my  holy  witness  I  wouldn't  be  astonished  to  sec 
the  old  klan  rise  an' — an'  make  an  example  of  you, 
to  satisfy  the  niggers  an'  show  whar  we  stand. 
I  needn't  say  no  more.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
The  klan  has  turned  ag'in'  you.  You  fooled  'em 
a  long  time;  but  since  you  knuckled  down  to  Nape 
Welbome  like  you  did  they  believe 'you  are  a  rank 
coward,  an',  Jim  Hoag,  no  coward  kin  force  hisse'f 
on  a  lot  o'  men  with  families  when  by  doin'  it  he 
puts  'em  all  in  danger.  Most  of  us  believe  that  if  3'ou 
was  shot,  or  poisoned,  an'  put  plumb  out  o'  the  way, 
this  thing  would  blow  over.  You  kin  act  fair  about 
this,  or  you  needn't;  but  if  you  don't  do  it  you  will 
be  made  to.  You  fed  an'  pampered  this  thing  up 
an'  it  has  turned  its  claws  an'  fangs  ag'in'  you — that 
is  all.     I'm  desperate  myself.     You  are  a  rich  man, 

367 


Paul     Rundel 

but,  by  God!  I  feel  like  spittin'  in  your  face,  as 
you  set  thar  smokin'  so  calm  when  my  wife  an' 
children  are  unable  to  sleep  at  night,  an'  afraid  to 
go  to  the  spring  in  daytime.  Now,  I'll  say  good- 
momin'.  I'm  goin'  furder  down  the  creek,  an'  I 
don't  want  you  to  follow  me." 

"Looky'  here,  Bert."  There  was  a  piteous,  new- 
bom  frailty  in  Hoag's  utterance.  "Listen  a  minute. 
I—" 

"I'm  done  with  you,"  Wilson  waved  his  hand 
firmly.  "Not  another  word.  You  are  in  a  hell  of 
a  plight,  but  it  don't  concern  me.  Under  your 
rule  I  was  tryin'  to  protect  my  family,  an'  now 
that  I  am  from  under  it  I'll  do  the  same.  My 
folks  come  fust  with  me." 

With  the  sun  in  his  face,  his  knees  drawn  close 
to  his  chin,  Hoag  sat  and  watched  the  man  as  he 
stoHdly  strode  away  through  the  wind-stirred  broom- 
sedge.  The  drooping  willows,  erect  cane-brake,  and 
stately  miillein  stalks  formed  a  curtain  of  green 
which  seemed  to  hang  from  the  blue  dome  cov- 
ered with  snowy  clouds.  When  Wilson  had  dis- 
appeared^Hoag  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  and  plodded 
across  the  field  to  his  horse.  Here  again,  in  mount- 
ing, he  experienced  the  odd  weightiness  of  his  feet 
and  legs,  as  if  his  mental  unrest  had  deprived  them 
of  all  physical  vitality,  and  him  of  the  means  of 
restoring  it. 

Reaching  home,  he  went  to  the  barn-yard  to 
turn  his  horse  over  to  Cato.  The  negro  was  al- 
ways supposed  to  be  there  at  that  hour,  but  though 
Hoag  called  loudly  several  times  there  was  no  re- 
sponse. Swearing  impatiently,  and  for  the  first 
time  shrinking  from  his  own  oaths,  he  took  off  the 

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Paul     Rundel 

bridle  and  saddle  and  fed  the  animal.  While  he 
was  in  the  stall  he  heard  a  sudden,  cracking  sound 
in  the  loft  overhead,  and  his  heart  sank  like  a 
plummet  into  deep  water.  Crouching  down  under 
the  wooden  trough,  he  drew  his  revolver  and  cocked 
it.  For  a  moment  he  held  his  breath.  Then  the 
cackling  of  a  hen  in  the  hay  above  explained  the 
sound,  and  restoring  his  revolver  to  his  pocket  he 
went  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Tilton  was  at  her  churn  in  the  side-gallery. 
Her  slow,  downward  strokes  and  easy  poise  of  body 
seemed  wholly  apart  from  the  uncanny  realm  which 
he  occupied  alone.  She  looked  up  and  eyed  him 
curiously  over  her  silver-rimmed  spectacles. 

**Whar's  that  nigger  Cato?"  he  demanded. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  left  for  good,"  she  returned. 
"He's  acted  odd  all  day — ^refused  outright  to  fetch 
water  to  the  kitchen.  I  told  'im  I'd  report  to  you, 
but  he  stood  with  the  most  impudent  look  on  his 
face,  an'  wouldn't  budge  an  inch.  Then  I  watched 
an'  saw  him  go  in  his  cabin.  Purty  soon  he  come  out 
with  a  bundle  under  his  arm,  an'  started  toward  town. 
After  he  was  out  o'  sight  I  went  to  his  shack  an' 
found  that  he  had  taken  all  his  things — every  scrap 
he  could  call  his  own.  I  reckon  he's  off  for  good. 
Aunt  Dilly  won't  talk  much,  but  she  thinks  it  is 
all  due  to  the  raid  the  mountain  men  made  on 
the  negroes  in  town  the  other  night.  I  know  you 
wasn't  in  that,  Jim,  because  you  was  here  at  home." 

"No,  I  wasn't  in  it." 

"I  certainly  am  glad  of  it."  The  woman  seemed 
to  churn  the  words  into  her  butter.  "The  whole 
thing  has  been  run  in  the  ground.  It  is  near  cotton- 
pickin'  time,  an'  if  the  niggers  all  leave  the  country 

369 


Paul      Rundel 

help,  won't  be  had.    The  crops  will  rot  in  the  field 
for  the  lack  o'  hands  to  pick  it  from  the  bolls." 

Hoag  passed  on  into  the  house  and  through  the 
hall  into  his  own  chamber.  Here  the  air  seemed 
oppressively  warm,  the  plastered  walls  giving  out 
heat  as  from  the  closed  door  of  a  furnace.  Throwing 
off  his  coat,  he  sat  down  before  a  window.  Such  a 
maze  and  multiplicity  of  thoughts  had  never  before 
beset  his  brain.  The  incidents  of  his  Hfe,  small  and 
large,  marched  past  with  the  regularity  of  soldiers. 
How  strange  that  Sid  Trawley's  face,  ablaze  with 
its  new  light,  should  emerge  so  frequently  from 
amid  the  others!  How  odd  that  he  should  recall 
Paul  Rundel's  notion  of  giving  himself  up  to  the 
law  and  siiffering  the  consequences  of  his  supposed 
crime!  And  the  effect  on  both  men  had  been  as- 
tounding. Sid  had  nothing  to  fear,  and  to  Paul  all 
good  things  were  falling  as  naturally  as  rain  from 
clouds.  Then  there  was  Henry,  who  had  suddenly 
turned  about  and  was  making  a  man  of  himself. 

At  this  moment  a  childish  voice  was  heard  sing- 
ing a  plantation  melody.  It  was  Jack  at  play  on 
the  lawn.  Hoag  leaned  from  the  window  and  saw 
the  boy,  with  hammer  and  nails,  mending  a  toy 
wagon.  Paul  Rundel  was  entering  the  gate.  Hoag 
noted  the  puckered  lips  of  his  manager  and  heard 
his  merry  whistle.  He  saw  him  pause,  tenderly 
stroke  Jack's  waving  curls,  and  smile.  Who  had 
ever  seen  a  face  more  thoroughly  at  peace  than 
this  young  man's — a  smile  more  spontaneous? 

Hoag  went  to  the  front  door  and  stood  waiting 
for  Paul  to  approach.  The  terror  within  him 
suggested  that  the  young  man  might  bring  fresh 
news  concerning  the  things  he  so  much  dreaded. 

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Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"Be  careful,  Jack,"  Paul  was  advising  the  boy. 
"If  you  start  to  coast  down  a  steep  hill  in  that 
thing  you  might  not  be  able  to  guide  it,  and — zip ! 
against  a  tree  or  stump  you'd  go,  an'  we'd  have 
to  fish  you  out  among  the  splinters."  This  was 
followed  by  some  low-spoken  directions  from  Paul, 
in  which  the  listener  on  the  veranda  caught  the 
words,  "friction,"  "nuts  and  bolts,"  "lubricating 
oil,"  and  "electric  motor." 

Then  the  young  man  turned,  and  seeing  Hoag 
he  came  on.  There  was  a  triumphant  beam  in  his 
eye,  an  eager  flush  in  his  cheeks,  as  he  approached 
the  steps. 

"Glad  you  are  at  home,"  he  began.  "I  was 
going  to  look  you  up  the  first  thing." 

"Did  you  w^ant  to — see  me  about — I  mean — " 

"Yes,  I've  landed  that  thing  at  last — put  it 
through." 

' '  You  say  you've — ' '  Hoag's  thoughts  were  widely 
scattered.     "You  say — " 

' '  Why,  the  shingle  contract,  you  remember. ' '  Paul 
stared  wonderingly.  "You  know  you  were  afraid 
the  Louisville  parties  would  not  sign  up  at  my 
price,  but  they  have.  They  take  ten  car-loads  of 
pine  stock  at  that  figure  and  give  us  two  years  to 
fill  the  order.  But  have  you" — Paul  was  studying 
the  man's  face — "have  you  changed  your  mind? 
Yesterday  you  thought — " 

"Oh,  it's  all  right— it's  splendid!"  Hoag's  voice 
was  lifeless;  he  looked  away  with  the  fixed  stare 
of  a  somnambulist;  he  wiped  his  brow  with  his 
broad  hand  and  dried  it  on  his  trousers.  "You  say 
they  take  five  cars?" 

"They    take    ten,"    Paul    repeated,    his    elation 
371 


Paul     Rundel 

oozing  from  him  like  a  vapor.  "It  will  keep  our 
force  busy  summer  and  winter  and  all  the  extra 
teams  we  can  get.  I've  found  a  place  for  your 
idle  saw-mill,  too — over  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge. 
I'm  sure,  when  you  have  time  to  look  over  my 
figures,  that  you  will  see  plenty  of  profit  for  you 
and  good  wages  for  the  hands.  The  men  are  all 
tickled.  You  don't  look  as  if  you  were  pleased 
exactly,  Mr.  Hoag,  and  if  anything  has  happened 
to  change  your  mind — " 

;  .  "Oh,  I  am  pleased— I  am— I  am!"  Hoag  assev- 
erated. "You've  done  well — powerful -^ well.  In 
fact,  very  well.  I'll  glance  at  your  figures  some  time 
soon,  but  not  now — not  now.  I'll  leave  it  all  to 
you,"  and  Hoag  retreated  into  the  house  and  shut 
himself  in  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THERE  was  a  galvanized  sheet -iron  mail-box 
near  the  gate  of  the  tannery,  and  in  it  once 
a  day  a  carrier  passing  on  horseback  placed  the 
letters  and  papers  which  came  for  the  family. 
Little  Jack  loved  to  take  the  key  and  open  the  box 
after  the  carrier  had  passed  and  bring  the  contents 
to  the  house  and  distribute  it  to  the  various  re- 
cipients. Hoag  sat  on  the  veranda  one  after- 
noon waiting  for  Jack,  who  had  just  gone  to  the 
box,  having  heard  the  carrier's  whistle.  Presently 
the  boy  came  in  at  the  gate  holding  several  letters 
in  his  hands,  and  he  brought  them  to  his  father. 

"Here's  one  without  a  stamp,"  Jack  smiled. 
"That's  funny;  I  thought  all  U.  S.  letters  had  to 
have  stamps  on  them." 

Hoag  saw  only  that  particular  envelope  in  the  lot 
which  was  laid  on  his  knee. 

"It  must  have  been  an  accident,"  he  muttered. 
"The  stamp  may  have  dropped  off." 

"More  likely  that  somebody  passed  along,  and 
put  the  letter  into  the  box,"  Jack's  inventive  mind 
suggested. 

Hoag  made  no  reply.  He  had  already  surmised 
that  this  might  be  the  case.  There  was  a  title 
prefixed  to  his  name  which  he  had  never  seen 
written  before,  and  it  held  his  eyes  like  the  charm 
of  a  deadly  reptile. 

"Captain  Jimmy  Hoag,"  was  the  superscription 
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Paul     Rundel 

in  its  entirety,  and  the  recipient  remembered  having 
seen  the  scrawHng  script  before.  Automatically  he 
singled  out  the  letters  for  Paul  and  for  Ethel  and 
her  mother,  and  sent  Jack  to  deliver  them. 

When  his  son  had  disappeared  Hoag  rose  and  crept 
stealthily  back  to  his  room.  Why  he  did  so  he  could 
not  have  explained,  but  he  even  locked  himself  in, 
turning  the  key  as  noiselessly  as  a  burglar  might  have 
done  in  the  stillness  of  night.  He  laid  the  envelope 
on  the  bed  and  for  a  moment  stood  over  it,  staring 
down  on  it  with  desperate  eyes.  Then,  with  quiver- 
ing, inert  fingers  he  opened  it  and  spread  out  the 
inclosed  sheet.  It  bore  the  same  skull  and  cross- 
bones  as  the  former  warning,  and  beneath  was 
written : 

The  day  and  the  hour  is  close  at  hand.  Keep  your  eye  on 
the  clock.    We  will  do  the  rest.  j^^g 

Blak  X  Buck 

mark. 

That  was  all.  Hoag  took  it  to  the  fireplace, 
struck  a  match,  and  was  about  to  ignite  the  paper, 
but  refrained.  Extinguishing  the  match,  he  rested 
a  quivering  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  reflected. 
What  ought  he  to  do  with  the  paper?  If  it  were 
found  on  his  dead  body  it  would  explain  things  not 
now  generally  known.  Dead  body!  How  could  he 
think  of  his  dead  body?  His  body,  white,  cold, 
and  lifeless,  perhaps  with  a  stare  of  terror  in  the  eyes ! 
Why,  he  had  never  even  thought  of  himself  as  being 
like  that,  and  yet  what  could  prevent  it  now  ?    What  ? 

Some  one — Ethel  or  her  mother — was  playing  the 
piano  in  the  parlor.  Aunt  Dilly  was  heard  singing 
while  at  work  behind  the  house.    Jack  ran  through 

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Paul      R  u  n  d  c 1 

the  hall,  making  a  healthy  boy's  usual  clatter, 
and  his  father  heard  him  merrily  calling  across  the 
lawn  to  Paul  Rundcl  that  he  had  left  a  letter  for 
him  on  his  table. 

All  this  was  maddening.  It  represented  life  in 
its  full  swing  and  ardor,  while  here  was  something 
as  grim  and  pitilessly  exultant  as  hell  itself  could 
devise.  Hoag  folded  the  paper  in  his  bloodless 
hands  and  sank  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed.  He  had 
used  his  brain  shrewdly  and  skilfully  hitherto,  and 
in  what  way  could  he  make  it  serve  him  now? 
Something  must  be  done,  but  what?  He  could 
not  appeal  to  the  law,  for  he  had  made  his  own 
laws,  and  they  were  inadequate.  He  could  not 
evoke  the  aid  of  friends,  for  they — such  as  they 
were — had  left  him  like  stampeded  cattle,  hoping 
that  by  his  death  the  wrath  of  the  hidden  avenger 
might  be  appeased.  He  could  flee  and  leave  all  his 
possessions  to  others,  but  something  told  him  that 
he  would  be  pursued. 

When  the  dusk  was  falling  he  went  out  on  the 
lawn.  Ethel  and  Paul  were  seated  on  a  rustic 
bench  near  the  summer-house,  and  he  avoided 
them.  Seeing  Mrs.  Mayfield  at  the  gate,  he  turned 
round  behind  the  house  to  keep  from  meeting 
and  exchanging  platitudes  with  her.  In  the  back 
yard  he  pottered  about  mechanically,  inspecting 
his  beehives,  his  chicken-house  and  dog-kennel, 
receptive  of  only  one  thought.  He  wondered  if  he 
were  really  losing  his  mental  balance,  else  why 
should  he  be  so  devoid  of  resources?  He  now 
realized  the  terrible  power  embodied  in  the  grue- 
some warnings  his  brain  had  fashioned  and  circulated 
among  a  simple-minded,  superstitious  people.    What 

375 


Paul     Rundel 

he  was  now  facing  they  had  long  cowered  under. 
The  thought  of  prayer,  as  a  last  resort,  flashed  into 
his  mind,  but  he  promptly  told  himself  that  only 
fools  prayed.  Biblical  quotations  flocked  about  him 
as  if  from  his  far-off  childhood.  And  such  quota- 
tions as  they  were! 

"Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord,"  and  "What 
is  a  man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world, 
and  lose  his  own  soul?"  These  things  seemed  to  be 
borne  to  him  on  the  breeze  that  swept  down  from 
the  beetling  rocks  of  the  mountains  which  leaned 
against  the  star-studded  sky. 

After  an  all  but  sleepless  night,  Hoag  ate  break- 
fast with  the  family  the  next  morning,  and  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  running  down  to  Atlanta 
for  a  day  or  so  on  business.  Paul  wanted  to  ask 
some  questions  pertaining  to  his  work,  but  Hoag 
swept  them  aside  with  a  turgid  wave  of  the  hand. 

"Run  it  yourself;  it  will  be  all  right,"  he  said. 
"Your  judgment  is  as  good  as  mine.  I  don't  feel 
exactly  well  here  lately.  I  have  headaches  that  I 
didn't  use  to  have,  an'  I  think  I'll  talk  to  a  doctor 
down  thar.     I  don't  know;  I  say  maybe  I  will." 

Riding  to  town,  he  left  his  horse  at  Trawley's 
stable,  and  going  to  the  railway  station  below 
the  Square  he  strolled  about  on  the  platform.  A 
locomotive's  whistle  several  miles  up  the  valley 
announced  that  the  train  was  on  time.  Approaching 
the  window  of  the  ticket-office,  which  was  within 
the  little  waiting-room,  he  found  the  opening  quite 
filled  by  a  broad-brimmed  farmer's  hat,  a  pair  of 
heavy  shoulders  on  a  long  body,  supported  by  a 
pair  of  gaunt  jeans-clothed  legs. 

"Yes,  I'm  off  for  Texas."  He  recognized  Pur- 
376 


Paul      R  u  n  d  c 1 

vynes's  voice  in  cheerful  conversation  with  the  agent. 
"My  brother  says  I  ought  to  come.  He's  got  a 
good  thing  for  me  out  thar — land's  as  black  as  a 
hat,  an'  as  rich  as  a  stable-lot  a  hundred  year  old. 
He  was  so  set  on  havin'  me  that  he  lent  me  the 
money  to  go  on.     So  long!     Good  luck  to  you!" 

The  head  was  withdrawn  from  the  window ;  a  pair 
of  brown  hands  were  awkwardly  folding  a  long  green 
emigrant's  ticket,  and  Purvynes  suddenly  saw  the 
man  behind  him. 

"Hello,  you  ofl?"  Hoag  hastily  summoned  a 
casual  tone. 

The  start,  the  dogged  lowering  of  the  head,  the 
vanishing  of  Purvynes's  smile,  were  successive  blows 
to  the  shrinking  consciousness  of  the  inquirer. 

' '  Yes,  I'm  off. "  Purvynes's  eyes  were  now  shifting 
restlessly.  Then  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  a  touch 
of  malice  crept  into  it  as  he  added:  "You  see,  I 
didn't  have  to  do  it  on  your  money,  nuther,  an' 
you  bet  I'm  glad.  It's  tainted  if  ever  cash  was, 
an'  I  want  to  shake  every  grain  o'  Georgia  dust  ofif 
my  feet,  anyway." 

"I'm  goin'  as  far  as  Atlanta,"  Hoag  said,  tenta- 
tively.    "I  may  see  you  on  the  train." 

"My  ticket's  second  class."  Purvynes  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "I'll  have  to  ride  in  the  emigrant- 
car,  next  to  the  engine.  I  reckon  we — we'd  better 
stay  apart,  Jim,  anyhow.  I  want  it  that  way,"  he 
added,  in  a  low,  firm  tone,  and  with  smoldering 
fires  in  his  eyes  which  seemed  about  to  burst  into 
flame. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  Hoag  hastily  acquiesced. 
"You  know  best,"  and  he  turned  to  the  window 
and  bought  his  ticket.    The  agent  made  a  courteous 
25  377 


Paul     Rundel 

remark  about  the  weather  and  the  crops,  and  in 
some  fashion  Hoag  responded,  but  his  thoughts  were 
far  away.  . 

He  found  himself  almost  alone  in  the  smoking-car. 
He  took  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  lighted  it,  and, 
raising  the  window,  blew  the  smoke  outside.  A 
baggage-truck  was  being  trundled  by.  He  could 
have  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  the  heap  of 
trunks  and  bags  with  which  it  was  laden.  A  burly 
negro  was  pushing  it  along.  Raising  his  eyes  sud- 
denly, he  saw  Hoag,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
startled  look  beneath  the  lines  of  his  swarthy  face. 
Another  blow  had  been  received.  Hoag  turned 
from  the  window.  The  train  started  on,  slowly  at 
first,  and,  going  faster  and  faster,  soon  was  passing 
through  Hoag's  property.  Never  on  any  other  occa- 
sion had  he  failed  to  survey  these  possessions  with 
pride  and  interest.  The  feeling  had  died  within  him. 
A  drab  disenchantment  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon 
every  visible  object.  All  he  owned — the  things  which 
had  once  been  as  his  life's  blood — had  dwindled  till 
they  amounted  to  no  more  than  the  broken  toys  of 
babyhood. 

Beyond  his  fertile  lands  and  the  roofs  of  his 
buildings  rose  a  red-soiled  hill  which  was  the  prop- 
erty of  the  village.  Hoag  turned  his  head  to  look 
at  it.  He  shuddered.  Tall  white  shafts  shone  in 
the  full  yellow  light.  One,  distinctly  visible,  marked 
the  grave  of  his  wife,  on  which  Hoag  had  spared 
no  expense.  There  was  room  for  another  shaft 
close  beside  it.  Under  it  a  murdered  man  would 
lie.  That  was  inevitable  unless  something  was 
done— and  what  could  be  done?  "Death,  death, 
death ! ' '    The  smooth,  flanged  wheels  seemed  to  grind 

378 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

the  words  into  the  steel  rails.  They  were  written 
on  the  blue  sky  along  the  earth-rimmed  horizon. 
They  were  whispered  from  the  lowest  depths  of  him- 
self. His  blood  crept,  cold  and  sluggish,  through 
his  veins.  A  chill  seemed  to  have  attacked  his 
feet  and  ankles  and  was  gradually  creeping  upward. 
He  remembered  that  this  was  said  to  be  the  sensation 
of  dying,  and  he  stood  up  and  stamped  his  feet  in 
vigorous,   rebellious  terror. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

BY  and  by  Atlanta  was  reached.  Slowly  and 
with  a  clanging  bell  the  train  crept  into  the 
grimy  switch-yards  bordered  by  sooty  iron  furnaces, 
factories,  warehouses,  planing-mills,  and  under  street 
bridges  and  on  into  the  big  depot.  Here  his  ears 
were  greeted  with  the  usual  jumble,  din,  and  babble 
of  voices,  the  escaping  of  steam,  the  calls  of  train- 
porters.  Hoag  left  the  car,  joined  the  jostling 
human  current  on  the  concrete  pavement,  and  was 
soon  in  the  street  outside.  Formerly  he  had  ridden 
to  his  hotel  in  a  trolley-car,  but  none  was  in  sight, 
and  seeing  a  negro  cabman  signaling  to  him  with 
a  smile  and  a  seductive  wave  of  his  whip  he  went 
forward  and  got  in. 

"Kimball  House,"  he  said  to  the  man,  and  with 
a  snap  of  the  latch  the  door  was  closed  upon  him. 

Rumbling  over  the  cobblestones,  through  the 
active  scene  which  was  bisected  by  the  thorough- 
fare, he  strove  in  vain  to  recapture  the  sensation 
he  had  formerly  had  on  such  outings — the  sensation 
that  he  was  where  enjoyment  of  a  certain  sensual 
sort  could  be  bought.  Formerly  the  fact  that  he 
was  able  to  pay  for  a  cab,  that  he  was  headed  for 
a  hotel  where  servants  would  obey  his  beck  and 
call,  where  food,  drinks,  and  cigars  would  be  ex- 
actly to  his  taste,  and  where  he  would  be  taken  for 
a  man  of  importance,  would  have  given  ^a  certain 
elation  of  spirits,  but  to-day  all  this  was  changed. 

380 


Paul     Rundel 

Had  he  been  driving  to  an  undertaker's  to  arrange 
the  details  of  his  own  burial,  he  cculd,  not  have  ex- 
perienced a  more  persistent  and  weighty  depression. 
Indeed,  the  realization  of  an  intangible  fate,  of  which 
death  itself  was  only  a  part,  seemed  to  percolate 
through  liim.  His  body  was  as  dead  as  stone,  his 
soul  never  more  alive,  more  alert,  more  desperate. 

At  the  desk  in  the  great  noisy  foyer  of  the  hotel, 
where  the  clerks  knew  him  and  where  he  paused 
to  register,  he  shrank  from  a  cordiality  and  recog- 
nition which  hitherto  had  been  welcome  enough. 
Even  the  clerks  seemed  to  be  ruthless  automatons  in 
whose  hands  his  fate  might  rest.  As  one  of  them 
carelessly  penciled  the  number  of  his  room  after  his 
signature,  and  loudly  called  it  out  to  a  row  of  colored 
porters,  he  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  silence  the  voice 
and  whisper  a  request  for  another  room  the  number 
of  which  was  to  be  private;  but  he  said  nothing,  and 
was  led  away  by  a  bell-boy. 

They  took  the  elevator  to  the  fifth  floor.  The  boy, 
carrying  his  bag,  showed  him  to  a  chamber  at  the 
end  of  a  long,  empty  corridor.  The  servant  un- 
locked the  door,  threw  it  open,  and,  going  in,  put 
down  the  bag  and  raised  the  sash  of  the  window, 
letting  in  the  din  of  the  street  below.  Then  he 
waited  for  orders. 

"A  pint  of  best  rye  whisky,  and  ice  water!" 
Hoag  said.  "Bring  'em  right  away,  and  some 
cigars — a  dozen  good  ones.    Charge  to  my  account." 

"All  right,  boss,"  the  porter  bowed  and  was  gone. 
Hoag  sat  down  by  the  window  and  glanced  out. 
He  noticed  a  trolley-car  bound  for  a  pleasure- 
resort  near  the  city.  It  had  been  a  place  to  which 
on  warm  days  he  had  enjoyed  going.    There  was  an 

381 


Paul     Rundel 

open-air  theater  there,  and  he  had  been  fond  of 
getting  a  seat  in  the  front  row,  and  smiHng  pat- 
ronizingly at  the  painted  and  powdered  players 
while  he  smoked  and  drank.  But  this  now  was  like 
a  thing  which  had  Hved,  died,  and  could  not  be  re- 
vived. He  had,  for  another  amusement,  lounged 
about  certain  pool-rooms  and  bucket-shops,  spending 
agreeable  days  with  men  of  wealth  and  speculative 
tendencies — men  who  loved  a  game  of  poker  for 
reasonable  stakes  and  who  asked  his  advice  as  to 
the  future  market  of  cotton  or  wheat;  but  from  this, 
too,  the  charm  had  flown. 

"What  is  a  man  profited—"  The  words  seemed 
an  echo  from  some  voice  stilled  long  ago — a  voice 
weirdly  like  that  of  his  mother,  who  had  been  a  Chris- 
tian woman.  The  patriarchal  countenance  of  Silas 
Tye,  that  humble  visage  so  full  of  mystic  content 
and  placid  certitude,  stood  before  his  mind's  eye. 
Then  there  was  Paul,  a  younger  disciple  of  the 
ancient  one.  And,  after  all,  what  a  strange  and 
wonderful  life  had  opened  out  before  the  fellow! 
Why,  he  had  nothing  to  avoid,  nothing  to  regret, 
nothing  to  fear. 

The  bell-boy  brought  the  whisky  and  cigars, 
and  when  he  had  gone  Hoag  drank  copiously, 
telling  himself  that  the  stimulant  would  restore  his 
lost  confidence,  put  to  flight  the  absurd  fancies 
which  had  beset  him.  He  remained  locked  in  his 
room  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon.  It  was  filled 
with  the  smoke  of  many  cigars,  and  his  brain  was 
confused  by  the  whisky  he  kept  drinking.  Looking 
from  the  window,  he  saw  that  night  had  fallen. 
The  long  streets  from  end  to  end  were  ablaze  with 
light.     Groping  to  the  wall,   he  finally  found  an 

382 


Paul     R  II  n  d  e  1 

electric  button  and  turned  on  the  current.  He  had 
just  gone  back  to  the  window  when  there  was  a  rap 
on  his  door.  He  started,  fell  to  quivering  as  from  the 
sheer  premonition  of  disaster,  and  yet  he  called  out : 

"Come  in!" 

It  was  the  bell-boy. 

"A  letter  for  you,  sir,"  he  announced,  holding  it 
forward.  "A  colored  gen 'man  lef  it  at  de  desk 
jes'  er  minute  ergo." 

Hoag  had  the  sensation  of  falling  from  a  great 
height  in  a  dizzy  dream,  " Whar  is  he?"  he  gasped, 
as  he  reached  for  the  envelope. 

"He's  gone,  sir.  He  tol'  de  clerk  ter  please  have 
it  tuck  up  quick,  dat  it  was  some  important  news, 
an'  den  he  went  off  in  er  hurry." 

"Did — did  you  know  'im?"  Hoag  fairly  gasped. 

"Never  seed  'im  befo',  sir;  looked  ter  me  like  er 
country  nigger — didn't  seem  ter  know  which  way 
ter  turn." 

When  the  boy  had  gone  Hoag  looked  at  the  in- 
scription on  the  letter.   He  had  seen  the  writing  before. 

"Captin  Jimmy  Hoag,  Kimball  House,  City  of 
Atlanta,"  was  on  the  outside.  He  sank  down  into 
his  chair  and  fumbled  the  sealed  envelope  in  his 
numb  fingers.  His  brain  was  clear  now.  It  had 
never  been  clearer.  Presently  he  opened  the  en- 
velope and  unfolded  the  sheet. 

It  ran  as  follows: 

One  place  is  as  good  as  another.  You  cannot  git  away. 
We  got  you,  and  your  time  is  short.  Go  to  the  end  of  the 
earth  and  we  will  be  there  to  meet  you.     By  order  of 

his 
Blak  X  Buck 
mark. 
383 


Paul     Rundel 

With  the  sheet  crumpled  in.  his  Ciammy  hand, 
Hoag  sat  still  for  more  than  an  hour.  Then  he  rose, 
shook  himself,  and  took  a  big  drink  of  whisky, 
He  resolved  that  he  would  throw  off  the  cowardly 
paralysis  that  was  on  him  and  be  done  with  it. 
He  would  go  out  and  spend  the  evening  some- 
where. Anything  was  better  than  this  self-im- 
prisonment in  solitude  that  was  maddening. 

Going  down  to  the  office,  he  suddenly  met  Edward 
Peterson  as  he  was  turning  from  the  counter.  The 
young  man  smiled  a  welcome  as  he  extended  his  hand. 

"I  was  just  going  up  to  your  room,"  he  said. 
"I  happened  to  see  your  name  on  the  register  while 
I  was  looking  for  an  out-of-town  customer  of  ours 
who  was  due  here  to-day.     Down  for  long?" 

**I  can't  say — I  railly  can't  say,"  Hoag  floundered. 
"It  all  depends — some  few  matters  to — to  see  to." 

"I  was  going  to  write  you,"  the  banker  continued, 
his  face  elongated  and  quite  grave.  "I  regard  you 
as  a  friend,  Mr.  Hoag — I  may  say,  as  one  of  the 
best  I  have.  I'm  sure  I've  always  looked  after  your 
interests  at  this  end  of  the  line  as  carefully  as  if 
they  had  been  my  own." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  that,  of  course."  Hoag's  re- 
sponse was  a  hurried  compound  of  impatience,  in- 
difference, and  despair. 

Peterson  threw  an  eager  glance  at  some  vacant 
chairs  near  by  and  touched  Hoag's  arm.  "Let's 
sit  down,"  he  entreated.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
"I  just  can't  put  it  off.  I'm  awfully  bothered,  Mr. 
Hoag,  and  if  anybody  can  help  me  you  can." 

Hoag  allowed  himself  to  be  half  led,  half  dragged 
to  the  chair,  and  he  and  his  companion  sat  down 
together. 

384 


Paul     Rundel 

"It's  about  Miss  Ethel,"  Peterson  went  on,  des- 
perately, laying  an  appealing  hand  on  Hoag's 
massive  knee.  "The  last  time  I  saw  her  at  your 
house  I  thought  she  was  friendly  enough,  but  some- 
thing is  wrong  now,  sure.  She  won't  write  often, 
and  when  she  does  her  letters  are  cold  and  stiff. 
I  got  one  from  her  mother  to-day.  Mrs.  Mayficld 
seems  bothered.  She  doesn't  seem  fully  to  under- 
stand Miss  Ethel,  either." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it."  Hoag  felt 
compelled  to  make  some  reply.  "The  truth  is,  I 
haven't  had  time  to — to  talk  to  Eth'  lately,  and — " 

"But  you  told  me  that  you  would.''  Peterson's 
stare  was  fixed  and  full  of  suppressed  suspense. 
"I've  been  depending  on  you.  My — my  pride  is — 
I  may  say  that  my  pride  is  hurt,  Mr.  Hoag.  My 
friends  down  here  consider  me  solid  with  the  young 
lady,  and  it  looks  as  if  she  were  trying  to  pull  away 
and  leave  me  in  the  lurch.  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
stand  it.  I've  never  been  turned  down  before  and 
it  hurts,  especially  when  folks  have  regarded  the 
thing  as  practically  settled.  Why — why,  my  salary 
has  been  raised  on  the  strength  of  it." 

Hoag's  entire  thoughts  were  on  the  communica- 
tion he  had  just  received.  He  expected  every 
moment  to  see  his  assassin  stalk  across  the  tiled 
floor  from  one  of  the  many  entrances  and  fire  upon 
him.  Peterson's  voice  and  perturbation  were  as 
vexatious  as  the  drone  of  a  mosquito.  Of  what  im- 
portance was  another's  puppy  love  to  a  man  on 
the  gallows  looking  for  the  last  time  at  the  sun- 
shine? He  rose  to  his  feet;  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"You  must  let  me  alone  to-night,"  he  bluntly 
3SS 


Paul     Rundel 

demanded.  "I've  got  a  matter  of  important  busi- 
ness on  my  mind  and  I  can't  talk  to  you.  You 
must,  I  tell  you;  you  must!" 

"All  right,  all  right!"  Peterson  stared  and  gasped 
as  if  smitten  in  the  face.  "I'll  see  you  in  the  morn- 
ing. You'll  come  around  to  the  bank,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes,  yes — in  the  morning.     I'll  be  round." 

When  he  was  alone  Hoag  strolled  back  to  the 
bar-room.  He  familiarly  nodded  to  the  barkeeper, 
and  smiled  mechanically  as  he  called  for  whisky. 
He  drank,  lighted  a  cigar,  leaned  for  an  instant 
against  the  polished  counter,  and  then,  seeing  a 
man  entering  whom  he  knew  and  wished  to  avoid, 
he  turned  back  into  the  foyer.  Presently  he  went 
to  the  front  door  and  glanced  up  and  down  the  street. 
A  cab  was  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  and  the 
negro  driver  called  out  to  him: 

"Ca'iage,  boss?    Any  part  de  city." 

"All  right,  I'm  with  you,"  Hoag  went  to  the  cab, 
whispered  an  address,  got  in,  and  closed  the  door. 
With  a  knowing  smile  the  negro  mounted  his  seat 
and  drove  away.  At  the  corner  he  turned  down 
Decatur  Street,  and  presently  drove  into  a  short 
street  leading  toward  the  railroad.  Here  the  houses 
on  either  side  of  the  way  had  red  glass  in  the  doors, 
through  which  crimson  rays  of  light  streamed  out 
on  the  pavement.  The  cab  was  about  to  slow  up 
at  one  of  the  houses  when  Hoag  rapped  on  the 
window.  The  driver  leaned  down  and  opened  the 
door. 

"What  is  it,  boss?" 

"Take  me  back  to  the  hotel,"  was  the  com- 
mand. 

386 


Paul     K  u  n  d  e 1 

The  driver  paused  in  astonishment,  then  slowly- 
turned  his  horse  and  started  back. 

"It  might  happen  thar,  and  Jack  would  find  out 
about  it,"  Hoag  leaned  back  and  groaned.  "That 
would  never  do.  It  is  bad  enough  as  it  is,  but  that 
would  be  worse.  He  might  grow  up  an'  be  ashamed 
even  to  mention  me.  Henry  is  tryin'  to  do  right, 
too,  an'  I'd  hate  for  him  to  know." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AT  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  two  days  later, 
i\  Hoag  returned  to  Grayson.  It  was  warm  and 
cloudy,  and  when  he  left  the  train  he  found  him- 
self alone  on  the  unlighted  platform.  No  one  was 
in  sight,  and  yet  he  felt  insecure.  He  told  him- 
self, when  the  train  had  rumbled  away,  that  it 
would  be  easy  for  an  assassin  to  stand  behind  the 
little  tool-house,  the  closed  restaurant,  or  the  rail- 
way blacksmith's  shop  and  fire  upon  him.  So, 
clutching  his  bag  in  his  cold  fingers,  he  walked 
swiftly  up  to  the  Square.  Here,  also,  no  one  was 
in  sight,  and  everything  was  so  still  that  he  could 
almost  fancy  hearing  the  occupants  of  the  near-by 
hotel  breathing.  He  turned  down  to  Sid  Trawley's 
stable  to  get  his  horse.  The  dim  Hght  of  a  murky 
lantern  swinging  from  a  beam  at  the  far  end  shone 
in  a  foggy  circle.  The  little  office  on  the  right 
was  used  by  Trawley  as  a  bedroom.  The  door  was 
closed,  but  through  the  window  a  faint  light  was 
visible,  and  there  was  a  sound  within  as  of  a  man 
removing  his  shoes. 

"Hello,  Sid,  you  thar?"  Hoag  called  out. 

"Yes,  yes;  who's  that?" 

Hoag  hesitated ;  then  stepping  close  to  the  window, 
he  said,  in  a  lower  tone:  "Me — Jim  Hoag;  I  want 
my  hoss,  Sid." 

"Oh,  it's  you;  all  right— all  right!" 
388 


Paul     Run  del 

The  sound  in  the  room  was  louder  now,  and  then 
Trawley,  without  coat  or  hat,  his  coarse  shirt  ga- 
ping at  the  neck,  opened  the  door  and  came  out. 

"You  got  here  quick,  I'll  swear,"  the  liveryman 
ejaculated.  "Surely  you  wasn't  in  Atlanta  like  they 
said  you  was,  or  you  couldn't  'a'  got  here  as  soon  as 
this." 

"Soon  as  this!  What  do  you  mean?  I  am  just 
from  Atlanta." 

"Then  they  didn't  telegraph  you?" 

"No;  what  do  you  mean?  I  hain't  heard  a  word 
from  here  since  I  left."  Hoag  caught  his  breath, 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  stood,  open- 
mouthed. 

"You  don't  say!  Then,  of  course,  you  couldn't 
know  about  Henry's  trouble?" 

"No,  I  tell  you  I'm  just  back.     What's  wrong?" 

"It  happened  about  nine  o'clock  to-night,"  Traw- 
ley explained.  "In  fact,  the  town  has  just  quieted 
down.  For  a  while  I  expected  the  whole  place  to 
go  up  in  flames.  It  was  in  the  hands  of  the  craziest 
mob  you  ever  saw — Nape  Welborne's  gang." 

"What  about  Henry?    Was  he  hurt,  or — " 

"Oh,  he's  all  right  now,  or  was  when  me'n  Paul 
Rundel,  an'  one  or  two  more  friends  put  'im  to  bed 
in  the  hotel.  Doctor  Wynn  says  he  is  bruised  up 
purty  bad,  but  no  bones  is  broke  or  arteries  cut." 

' '  Another  fight,  I  reckon !"  Hoag  was  prepared  to 
dismiss  the  matter  as  too  slight  for  notice  in  contrast 
to  his  far  heavier  woes. 

"Yes,  but  this  time  you  won't  blame  him,  Jim. 
In  fact,  you  are  the  one  man  on  earth  that  will 
stand  up  for  'im  if  thar's  a  spark  o'  good  left  in  you. 
He  was  fightin'  for  you,  Jim  Hoag.    I  used  to  think 

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Paul     Rundel 

Henry  didn't  amount  to  much,  but  I've  changed. 
I  take  off  my  hat  to  'im,  an'  it  will  stay  off  from 

now  on." 

"Fighting  for  me?"    Hoag's  fears  gathered  from 
many  directions  and  ruthlessly  leaped  upon  him. 

"Yes,  it  seems  that  Nape  Welborne  had  it  in 
for  you  for  some  reason  or  other,  an'  you  bein' 
away  he  determined  to  take  it  out  on  your  boy. 
I  knowed  trouble  was  brewin',  an'  I  got  Henry  to 
come  down  here  away  from  the  drinkin'  crowd  in 
front  o'  his  store.  Henry  has  been  powerfully  in- 
terested in  some  o'  the  things  Paul  Rundel  an'  me 
believe  here  lately  about  the  right  way  to  live,  an' 
me'n  him  was  talkin'  about  it.  We  was  gettin'  on 
nice  an'  quiet  in  our  talk  when  who  should  come 
but  Nape  an'  his  bloodthirsty  lay-out,  fifteen  or 
twenty  strong.  You  know  Nape,  an'  you  no  doubt 
understand  his  sneakin',  underhanded  way  of  pickin' 
a  fuss.  He  took  a  chair  thar  in  front,  an'  though  he 
knowed  Henry  was  Hstenin'  he  begun  on  you. 
What  he  didn't  say,  along  with  his  oaths  and  sneers, 
never  could  'a'  been  thought  of.  He  begun  gradual- 
Hke  an'  kept  heapin'  it  on  hot  an'  heavy,  his  eyes 
on  Henry  all  the  time,  an'  his  stand-by's  laughin' 
an'  cheerin'  'im.  I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a 
human  face  as  I  seed  on  your  boy's.  Seemed  Hke 
he  was  tryin'  to  hold  in,  but  couldn't.  I  pulled  him 
aside  a  Httle,  an'  told  him  to  remember  his  good 
resolutions  an'  to  try  to  stay  out  of  a  row  ag'in' 
sech  awful  odds;  but  lookin'  me  straight  in  the  eye 
he  said: 

'"A  man  can't  reform  to  do  any  good,  Sid,  an'  be 
a  coward.  He's  insulting  my  father,  an'  I  can't 
stand  it.     I  can't,  and  I  won't!'  " 

390 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  cl 

Trawley  paused  an  instant,  and  Hoag  caught  his 
breath. 

"He  said  that,  did  he — Henry  said  that?" 

"Yes,  I  tried  to  pacify  him,  knowin'  that  he 
wouldn't  stand  a  ghost  of  a  chance  ag'in'  sech  odds, 
but  nothin'  I  said  had  the  slightest  effect  on  'im. 
He  pulled  away  from  me,  slow  an'  polite  like.  He 
thanked  me  as  nice  as  you  please,  then  he  went 
straight  toward  Welbome.  He  had  stood  so  much 
already  that  I  reckon  Nape  thought  he  was  goin' 
to  pass  by,  to  get  away,  an'  Nape  was  beginnin' 
to  laugh  an'  start  some  fresh  talk  when  Henry 
stopped  in  front  of  him  suddenly  an'  drawed  back 
his  fist  an'  struck  'im  a  blow  in  the  mouth  that 
knocked  Nape  clean  out  o'  his  chair.  Nape  rolled 
over  ag'in  the  wall,  then  sprung  up  spittin'  blood 
an'  yellin',  an'  the  two  had  it  nip  an'  tuck  for  a 
minute,  but  the  gang  wouldn't  see  fair-play.  They 
was  all  drunk  an'  full  o'  mob  spirit  an'  they  closed 
in  on  the  boy  like  ants  on  a  speck  o'  bread  an' 
begun  to  yell,  'Lynch  'im,  lynch  'im!' 

"It  was  like  flint-sparks  to  powder  in  the  pan. 
It  was  the  wildest  mix-up  I  ever  saw,  and  I  have 
seed  a  good  many  in  my  day.  Henry  was  in  the 
middle  duckin'  down,  strildng  out  whenever  he 
could,  an'  callin'  'em  dirty  dogs  and  cowardly  cut- 
throats. They  meant  business.  They  drug  the 
poor  boy  on  to  the  thicket  back  of  the  Court  House 
an'  stopped  under  a  tree.  Some  fellow  had  got 
one  of  my  hitchin'  ropes,  an'  they  flung  it  'round 
Henry's  neck,  and  tied  his  hands  and  feet.  I  thought 
it  was  up  with  'im,  when  an  unexpected  thing  hap- 
pened. Paul  Rundcl  rid  up  on  a  hoss,  an'  jumped 
down  and  sprung  in  the  middle  of  the  mob.     I 

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Paul     Rundel 

was  doln'  all  I  could,  but  that  wasn't  nothin'.  I 
saw  Paul  holdin'  up  his  hands,  an'  beggin'  'em  to 
listen  for  a  minute.  They  kept  drownin'  'im  out 
by  the'r  crazy  yells,  but  after  a  while  Paul  caught 
the'r  attention,  an'  with  his  hands  on  Henry's 
shoulders  he  begun  to  talk.  Jim  Hoag,  as  God  is 
my  judge,  I  don't  believe  thar  ever  was  made  a 
more  powerful  orator  than  that  very  young  feller. 
His  words  swept  through  that  crowd  like  electricity 
from  a  dynamo.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  what  he 
said.  It  was  the  whole  life  an'  law  of  Jesus  packed 
into  explodin'  bomb-shells.  You'd  'a'  thought  he 
was  cryin',  from  his  tender  face,  but  his  eyes  was 
gleamin'  like  shootin'-stars,  an'  he  was  mad  enough 
to  fight  a  buzz-saw.  Some  fellow  in  the  gang  said, 
'Git  away  from  that  man,  Rundel,  or  Til  shoot  you!' 
an'  Paul  laughed,  an'  said,  'Fire  away,  my  friend, 
but  see  that  you  don't  hit  yourself  while  you  are 
at  it!' 

"Then  somebody  knocked  the  pistol  down  an' 
Paul  went  on  talkin'.  One  by  one  the  crowd  got 
ashamed  and  sluffed  off,  an'  presently  just  me  an* 
Paul  an'  Henry  an'  one  or  two  more  was  left.  We 
took  Henry  to  the  hotel  an'  got  a  room  for  'im,  an' 
made  'im  go  to  bed." 

Trawley  ceased  speaking.  Hoag  stood  with  down- 
cast eyes.     He  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Mark  my  word,"  Trawley  added,  confidently, 
"the  day  o'  mobs  hereabouts  is  over.  This  was 
the  straw  that  breaks  the  camel's  back.  The  old 
klan  is  down  an'  out,  an'  Paul  Rundel  will  settle 
the  young  gang.  They  respect  'im.  They  can't 
help  it,  an'  he  told  me  he  was  goin'  to  make  it  his 
chief  aim  to  crush  it  out." 

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Paul     Rundel 

Hoag  remained  silent  and  Trawley  went  to  a 
stall  in  the  rear  and  brought  his  horse  forward. 

"You  ain't  goin'  in  to  see  Henry  'fore  you  go 
out,  are  you?"  he  asked,  as  he  released  the  bridle- 
reins. 

"Not  to-night,"  was  the  reply.  "He  may  be 
asleep.     I'll — I'll  see  'im,  I  reckon,  to-morrow." 

Hoag  thrust  a  clumsy  foot  into  the  wooden 
stirrup,  and  bent  his  knees  as  if  to  mount,  but  failed. 
There  was  a  block  near  by,  and  he  led  his  horse  to 
it,  and  from  the  block  finally  got  into  the  saddle. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  and  he  rode  away.  At  the 
street- corner  he  took  out  his  revolver  and,  holding 
it  in  one  hand,  he  urged  his  horse  into  a  gallop. 
From  every  fence-corner  or  dark  clump  of  bushes 
on  the  roadside  he  expected  to  see  armed  men  arise 
and  confront  him. 

26 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ONE  morning,  three  days  later,  as  Paul  was 
writing  in  his  room  his  employer  came  in 
holding  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand.  His  face  was 
bloated,  his  eyes  bloodshot;  he  had  lost  flesh  and 
quivered  in  every  limb  and  muscle. 

"I  want  to  ask  a  favor,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which 
was  almost  that  of  pleading  humility. 

"What  is  it.?  I'm  at  your  service,"  the  young 
man  said,  politely  indicating  the  vacant  chair  be- 
side the  table. 

Hoag  caught  the  back  of  the  chair  as  if  to  steady 
himself,  but  declined  to  sit  down.  He  made  a  dis- 
mal failure  of  a  smile  of  unconcern.  "You  needn't 
think  I'm  gittin'  ready  to  die  by  this  move  o'  mine," 
he  began,  "but  I  think  any  sensible  man  ought  to 
be  prepared  for  any  possible  accident  to  him.  I've 
made  my  will,  an'  I  want  you  to  witness  it.  It 
won't  be  contested,  and  your  name  will  be  suf- 
ficient." 

"Oh,  I  see."  Paul  was  mystified,  but  he  took  the 
document  from  the  nerveless  hand  and  spread  it 
open  on  the  table. 

"You  needn't  bother  to  read  it  through."  Hoag's 
voice  trailed  away  toward  indistinctness,  and  he 
coughed  and  cleared  his  throat.  "I've  made  an 
even  divide  of  all  my  effects  betwixt  Jack  an'  Henry 
an'  Eth',  an' — an'  I've  specified  that  the  business 
— ^in  case  o'  my  death — is  to  run  on  iinder  your 

394 


Paul     Rundel 

care  till  Jack  is  of  age — that  is,  if  you  are  willin': 
you  to  draw  whatever  pay  you  feel  is  reasonable 
or  is  fixed  by  the  law." 

"Of  course  that  is  agreeable,"  Paul  answered, 
"though  I  shall  count  on  your  aid  and  advice  for 
a  good  many  years,  I  am  sure." 

Hoag  blinked.  He  swung  on  the  chair  a  moment, 
then  he  added: 

"There  is  one  more  thing,  an'  I  hope  you  won't 
object  to  that,  neither.  It's  about  Jack.  The  child 
is  at  the  age  when  he  kin  either  grow  up  under 
good  or — or  what  you  might  call  bad  influence,  an' 
somehow  I  want — I've  studied  over  it  a  lot  lately 
— an'  I  want  to  take  the  thing  in  time.  You  don't 
believe  exactly  like  other  folks,  but  you  are  on  the 
safe  side — the  safest,  I  might  say.  Jack  thinks 
the  sun  rises  an'  sets  in  you" — Hoag's  voice  shook 
slightly — "I  reckon  it's  because  you  treat  the  little 
fellow  so  friendly  an'  nice,  an'  it  struck  me  that 
in  case  of  any — you  know — any  possible  accident 
to  me  that  I'd  like  for  you  to  be  his  guardian." 

''His  guardian?    I!    Why,  Mr.  Hoag— " 

"Never  mind;  I  know  what  you  are  goin'  to  say. 
You  think  you  are  too  young,  I  reckon,  but  I've 
thought  about  it  a  lot,  an'  I  really  would  feel  better 
in — in  my  mind  if  you'd  agree.  I  ain't — I  can't 
say  I  am" — Hoag  attempted  a  laugh  of  indiffer- 
ence— "actually  countin'  on  the  grave  right  now, 
but  a  feller  like  me  has  enemies.  In  fact,  I  may  as 
well  say  I  know  1  have  some,  an'  they  wouldn't 
hesitate  to  settle  me  if  they  had  a  fair  chance.  I've 
writ  it  all  down  thar,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  sign  it  an'  I 
want  you  to  witness  my  signature." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Hoag.  I  feel  highly  honored,  and 
395 


Paul     Run  del 

I'll  do  my  best  to  prove  worthy  of  the  trust  you 
place  in  me." 

"I  ain't  a-worryin'  about  that.  You  are  a  plumb 
mystery  to  me.  Sometimes  I  think  you  are  more'n 
human.  I  know  one  thing  —  I  know  you  are  all 
right."  Hoag's  massive  hand  shook  as  he  dipped 
a  pen,  leaned  down,  and  wrote  his  name.  He  stood 
erect  and  watched  Paul  sign  his  name  opposite  it. 

"You  take  care  of  it."  Hoag  waved  his  hand. 
"Put  it  in  the  safe  at  the  warehouse.  I  can't  think 
of  anything  else  right  now.  If — if  I  do,  I'll  men- 
tion it." 

"I  have  an  order  for  several  grades  of  leather 
from  Nashville,"  Paul  began,  picking  up  a  letter 
on  the  table,  "and  I  want  to  consult  you  about — " 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't."  A  sickly  look  of 
despair  had  settled  on  the  heavy  features.  "I'm 
willin'  to  trust  your  judgment  entirely.  What  you 
do  will  be  all  right.  You  see — you  see,  somehow 
it  is  a  comfort  at  my  time  o'  life — an'  harassed  like 
I  am — to  feel  that  I  ain't  obliged  to  bother  about 
so  many  odds  an'  ends." 

"Very  well,  as  you  think  best,"  Paul  answered. 
"I'll  do  all  I  can." 

Hoag  was  seated  on  the  watering-trough  in  the 
barn-yard  a  little  later,  his  dull  gaze  on  the  sunlit 
mountain-side,  when  two  soft,  small  hands  were 
placed  over  his  eyes  from  behind  and  he  felt  the 
clasp  of  a  tender  pair  of  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Who's  got  you?"  a  young  voice  asked,  in  a 
bird-like  ripple  of  merriment. 

"Jack!"  Hoag  answered,  and  he  drew  the  boy 
into  his  lap,  stroked  his  flowing  tresses,  and  held 
him  tightly  against  his  breast. 

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Paul     Rundel 

The  child  laughed  gleefully.  He  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  big,  trembling  knee;  then,  seeing  a 
butterfly  fluttering  over  a  dungheap,  he  sprang 
down  and  ran  after  it.  It  evaded  the  outstretched 
straw  hat,  and  Hoag  saw  him  climb  over  the  fence 
and  dart  across  the  meadow.  Away  the  lithe 
creature  bounded — as  free  as  the  balmy  breeze  upon 
which  he  seemed  to  ride  as  easily  as  the  thing  he 
was  pursuing.  Hoag  groaned.  His  despair  held 
him  like  a  vise.  On  every  side  hung  the  black  cur- 
tains of  his  doom.  All  nature  seemed  to  mock  him. 
Birds  were  singing  in  the  near-by  woods.  On  the 
sloping  roof  of  the  bam  blue  and  white  pigeons 
were  strutting  and  cooing.  On  the  lawn  a  stately 
peacock  with  plumage  spread  strode  majestically 
across  the  grass. 

To  avoid  meeting  Jack  again,  Hoag  passed  out 
at  the  gate,  and  went  into  the  wood,  which,  cool, 
dank,  and  somber,  stretched  away  toward  the 
mountain.  Deeper  and  deeper  he  got  in  the  shade 
of  the  great  trees  and  leaning  cliffs  and  boulders 
till  he  was  quite  out  of  sight  or  hearing  of  the  house. 
The  solitude  and  stillness  of  the  spot  strangely  ap- 
pealed to  him.  For  the  first  time  in  many  days 
he  had  a  touch  of  calmness.  The  thought  came  to 
him  that,  if  such  a  thing  as  prayer  were  reasonable 
at  all,  a  spot  like  this  would  make  it  effective. 

Suddenly,  as  he  stood  looking  at  a  cliff  in  front 
of  him,  he  fancied  that  the  leaves  and  branches  of 
an  overhanging  bush  were  stirring.  To  make  sure, 
he  stared  fixedly  at  it,  and  then  he  saw  a  black  face 
emerge,  a  face  that  was  grimly  set  in  satisfaction. 
Was  he  asleep,  and  was  this  one  of  the  niunerous 
fancies  which  had  haunted  him  in  delirium?    Yes, 

397 


Paul      Rundel 

for  the  face  was  gone,  the  leaves  of  the  bush  were 
still.  And  yet,  was  it  gone?  Surely  there  was  re- 
newed activity  about  the  bush  which  was  not  visible 
in  its  fellows.  What  was  it  that  was  slowly  emerging 
from  the  branches  like  a  bar  of  polished  steel?  The 
sunlight  struck  it  and  it  flashed  and  blazed  steadily. 
The  bush  swayed  downward  and  then  held  firm. 
There  was  a  puff  of  blue  smoke.  Hoag  felt  a  stinging 
sensation  over  the  region  of  his  heart.  Everything 
grew  black.  He  felt  himself  falling.  He  heard  an 
exultant  laugh,  which  seemed  to  recede  in  the  dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  was  a  few  weeks  after  Hoag's  burial.  Ethel 
had  been  for  a  walk  and  was  ncaring  home.  At 
the  side  of  the  road  stood  a  sordid  log  cabin,  one 
of  the  worst  of  its  class.  In  the  low  doorway- 
leaned  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  She  was 
under  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  yet  from  her 
tattered  dress,  worn-out  shoes,  scant  hair,  and  wan, 
wearied  face  she  might  have  passed  as  the  grand- 
mother of  her  four  or  five  little  children  playing  about 
the  door-step. 

Catching  her  eye,  Ethel  bowed  and  turned  in 
toward  the  hut.  As  she  did  so,  the  woman  stepped 
down  and  came  forward.  The  children,  forsaking 
their  play,  followed  and  clung  to  her  soiled  skirt, 
eying  Ethel's  black  dress  and  hat  -^dth  the  curiosity 
peculiar  to  their  ages  and  station.  The  w^oman's 
husband,  David  Harris,  had  been  confined  to  his 
bed  since  the  preceding  winter,  when  he  had  been 
laid  up  by  an  accident  due  to  the  falling  of  a  tree 
while  at  work  for  Hoag  on  the  mountain,  and  Ethel 
and  her  mother  had  shown  him  and  his  wife  some 
thoughtful  attention. 

"I  stopped  to  ask  how  Mr.  Harris  is,"  Ethel  said. 
"My  mother  will  want  to  know." 

"He's  a  good  deal  better.  Miss  Ethel,"  the  woman 
replied,  pulling  her  skirt  from  the  chubby  clutch  of 
a  little  barefooted  girl. 

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Paul     Rundel 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  Ethel  cried.  "I  suppose  his 
new  medicine  is  doing  him  good?" 

"No,  he  hasn't  begun  on  it  yet,"  Mrs.  Harris 
answered,  "The  old  lot  ain't  quite  used  up  yet. 
I  just  think  it  is  due  to  cheerfulness,  Miss  Ethel. 
I  never  knowed  before  that  puttin'  hope  in  a  sick 
body  would  work  such  wonders,  but  it  has  in  Dave." 

"He  has  been  inclined  to  despondency,  hasn't 
he?"  Ethel  rejoined,  sympathetically.  "My  mother 
said  she  noticed  that  the  last  time  we  were  here, 
and  tried  to  cheer  him  up." 

"Thar  was  just  one  thing  that  could  cheer  'im, 
an'  that  happened." 

"I'm  glad,"  Ethel  said,  tentatively  "He  seemed 
to  worry  about  the  baby's  sickness,  but  the  baby 
is  well  now,  isn't  she?"  Ethel  touched  the  child 
under  the  chin  and  smiled  into  its  placid  blue  eyes. 

"No,  it  wasn't  the  baby,"  the  wife  went  on. 
"Dave  got  some'n  off  his  mind  that  had  been  worry- 
in'  him  ever  since  Paul  Rundel  got  home  an'  took 
charge  o'  Mr.  Hoag's  business.  That  upset  'im 
entirely.  Miss  Ethel — he  actually  seemed  to  collapse 
under  it,  an'  when  Mr.  Hoag  died  he  got  worse." 

"But  why?"  Ethel  groped,  wonderingly. 

"It  was  like  this,"  the  woman  answered.  "Long 
time  ago,  when  Paul  an'  Dave  was  boys  together, 
they  had  a  row  o'  some  sort.  Dave  admits  that 
him  and  his  brother,  Sam,  who  was  sent  off  for 
stealin'  a  hoss,  two  year  ago,  acted  powerful  bad. 
They  teased  Paul  an'  nagged  'im  constantly,  till 
Paul  got  a  gun  one  day  an'  threatened  to  kill  'em 
if  they  didn't  let  'im  alone.  Then  right  on  top  o' 
that  Paul  had  his  big  trouble  an'  run  off,  an'  him 
an'  Dave  never  met  till — " 

400 


Paul     Rundel 

"I  see,  but  surely  Paul — "  Ethel  began,  per- 
plexed, and  stopped  suddenly. 

"I  was  comin'  to  that,  Miss  Ethel.  You  see, 
Dave  had  a  good  regular  job  cuttin'  an'  haulin' 
for  Mr.  Hoag,  an'  until  Paul  was  put  in  charge 
he  expected,  as  soon  as  he  was  strong  enough,  to 
go  back  to  work  again.  But  the  report  went  out, 
an'  it  was  true,  that  Mr.  Hoag  had  turned  all  the 
hirin'  of  men  over  to  Paul  an'  refused  to  take  a 
single  man  on  his  own  hook." 

"Oh,  I  see,  and  your  husband  was  afraid — " 

"He  was  afraid  Paul  had  a  grudge  ag'in'  'im,  Miss 
Ethel.  He  talked  of  nothin'  else,  an'  it  looked  like 
he  dreamed  of  nothin'  else.  I  used  to  catch  'im  cr^'in' 
as  he  nussed  the  baby  for  me  while  I  was  fixin'  'im 
some'n  to  eat.  He  kept  sayin'  that  the  Lord  was 
punishin'  'im  for  the  way  he  done  Paul.  He  said  no 
man  with  any  spirit  would  hire  a  fellow  under  them 
circumstances,  an'  he  couldn't  expect  it.  He  said 
Paul  was  plumb  on  top  now  since  Mr.  Hoag's  gone, 
an'  had  a  right  to  crow.  I  begged  'im  to  let  me 
tell  Paul  how  he  felt  about  it,  but  he  wouldn't 
hear  to  it;  he  was  too  proud.  Besides,  he  said, 
no  brave  man  would  respect  another  for  apologizin' 
at  such  a  late  day  when  he  was  after  a  favor.  So 
he  just  bothered  an'  bothered  over  it  till  he  quit 
eatin'  an'  begun  to  talk  about  bein'  buried."  Here 
the  woman's  voice  quivered.  "He  kept  sayin'  he 
didn't  want  me  to  spend  money  on  layin'  'im  away. 
He  got  so  troubled  about  that  one  thing  that  he 
begged  Zeke  Henry,  who  is  a  carpenter,  you  know, 
to  agree  to  make  'im  some  sort  of  a  cheap  box  to 
be  put  in  so  that  I  wouldn't  go  to  town  an'  git  a 
costly  one  on  a  credit  when  the  time  come." 

401 


Paul     Rundel 

"How  sad  —  how  very  sad!"  Ethel  exclaimed. 
"And  then  Paul  must  have — of  course,  you  told 
Paul—" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  the  woman  broke  in. 
"Dave  would  'a'  been  mad;  but  one  day,  about  a 
week  ago,  I  was  out  in  the  thicket  across  the  road 
pickin'  up  sticks  to  bum  when  Paul  come  along. 
I  used  to  live  over  the  mountain  before  he  went  off, 
an'  so  I  thought  he  didn't  know  me.  I  thought  he 
was  goin'  by  without  speakin'  to  me,  for  it  looked 
like  he  was  tryin'  to  overtake  a  wagon  load  o'  lum- 
ber right  ahead;  but  when  he  seed  me  he  stopped 
an'  raised  his  hat  an'  stood  with  it  in  his  hand 
while  he  asked  me  how  Dave  was.  He  said  he'd 
just  heard  he  was  so  bad  off,  an'  was  awful  sorry 
about  it. 

"I  told  'im  how  Dave's  health  was,  but  I  didn't 
let  on  about  how  he  was  worryin'.  Then  Paul 
studied  a  minute,  an'  it  looked  to  me  like  he  was 
actually  blushin'.  '  I  wonder, '  he  said,  'if  Dave  would 
let  me  go  in  an'  see  'im.  I've  met  nearly  all  of  the 
boys  I  used  to  know,  an'  have  been  hopin'  he'd  be 
out  so  I  could  run  across  'im.'  " 

"That  was  just  like  Paul,"  Ethel  said,  warmly. 
"And  of  course  he  saw  your  husband?" 

The  woman  shifted  the  baby  from  her  arms  to 
her  gaunt  right  hip.  Her  eyes  glistened  and  her 
thin  lips  quivered.  "You'll  think  I'm  silly.  Miss 
Ethel."  She  steadied  her  voice  with  an  effort.  "I 
break  down  an'  cry  ever'  time  I  tell  this.  I  believe 
people  can  cry  for  joy  the  same  as  for  grief  if  it 
hits  'em  just  right.  I  took  Paul  to  the  door,  an' 
went  in  to  fix  Dave  up  a  little — to  give  'im  a  clean 
shirt  an'   the  like.     An'  all  that  time  Dave  was 

402 


Paul     Rundel 

crazy  to  ask  what  Paul  wanted,  but  was  afraid 
Paul  would  hear  'im,  an'  so  I  saw  him  starin'  at  me 
mighty  pitiful.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  Paul  was 
friendly,  but  I  didn't  know  how  to  manage  it. 
I  winked  at  'im,  an'  tried  to  let  'im  see  by  my 
cheerfulness  that  it  was  all  right  with  Paul,  but 
Dave  couldn't  understand  me.  Somehow  he  thought 
Paul  might  still  remember  the  old  fuss,  an'  he  was 
in  an  awful  stew  till  Paul  come  in.  But  he  wasn't 
in  doubt  long.  Miss  Ethel.  Paul  come  in  totin' 
little  Phil  in  his  arms — he'd  been  playin'  with  the 
child  outside — an'  shuck  hands  with  Dave,  an'  set 
down  by  the  bed  in  the  sweetest,  plainest  way  you 
ever  saw.  He  kept  rubbin'  Phil's  dirty  legs — ^jest 
wouldn't  let  me  take  him,  an'  begun  to  laugh  an' 
joke  with  Dave  over  old  boyhood  days.  Well,  I 
simply  stood  there  an'  wondered.  I've  seen  human- 
ity in  as  many  shapes  as  the  average  mountain 
woman  o'  my  age  an'  sort,  I  reckon,  but  I  never, 
never  expected  to  meet  a  man  like  Paul  Rundel 
in  this  life.  He  seemed  to  lift  me  clean  to  the  clouds, 
as  he  talked  to  Dave  about  the  foolishness  of  bein' 
blue  an'  givin'  up  to  a  sickness  like  his'n.  Then 
like  a  clap  o'  thunder  from  a  clear  sky  he  told 
Dave  in  an  off-hand  way,  as  if  it  wasn't  nothin' 
worth  mentionin',  that  he  wanted  'im  to  hurry  an' 
git  well  because  he  had  a  job  for  'im  bossin'  the 
hands  at  the  shingle-mill.  Miss  Ethel,  if  the  Lord 
had  split  the  world  open  an'  I  saw  tongues  o'  fire 
shootin'  up  to  the  skies  I  wouldn't  'a'  been  more 
astonished. 

"  'Do  you  really  mean  that,  Paul?'  I  heard  Dave 
ask;  an'  then  I  heard  Paul  say,  'I  certainly  do, 
Dave,  an'  you  won't  have  to  wait  till  you  are  plumb 

403 


Paul     Rundel 

well,  either,  for  you  kin  do  that  sort  o'  work  just 
settin'  around  keepin'  tab  on  things  in  general.' 
An'  so-,  Miss  Ethel,  that's  why  Dave's  gittin'  well 
so  fast.  It  ain't  the  medicine;  it's  the  hope  an'  joy 
that  Paul  Rundel  put  in  'im.  They  say  Paul  has 
got  some  new  religion  or  other,  an'  I  thank  God 
he  has  found  it.  Love  for  sufferin'  folks  fairly  leaks 
out  of  his  face  an'  eyes.  Before  he  left  he  had 
every  child  we  have  up  in  his  lap,  a-teUin'  'em  tales 
about  giant-killers  an'  hobgoblins  an'  animals  that 
could  talk,  an'  when  he  went  off  he  left  Dave  cryin' 
like  his  heart  was  breakin'." 

Ethel  walked  slowly  homeward.  From  a  small, 
gray  cloud  in  the  vast  blue  overhead  random  drops 
of  rain  were  falHng  upon  the  hot  dust  of  the  road. 
As  she  neared  the  house  she  saw  her  mother  waiting 
for  her  at  the  front  gate  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"I  wondered  where  you  were,"  Mrs.  Mayfield 
said,  as  she  held  the  gate  ajar  for  her  daughter  to 
pass  through.  "You  know  I  can't  keep  from  being 
imeasy  since  your  poor  uncle's  death." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  Ethel  smiled.  She  noticed  that 
her  mother  had  folded  the  letter  tightly  in  her  hand 
and  seemed  disincHned  to  refer  to  it. 

"Who  is  your  letter  from?"  the  girl  questioned, 
as  they  walked  across  the  lawn  toward  the  house. 

"Guess,"  Mrs.  Mayfield  smiled,  still  holding  the 
letter  tightly. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  Ethel  answered,  abstractedly, 
for  she  was  unable  to  detach  herself  from  the  recital 
she  had  just  heard. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  paused,  looked  up  at  the  threaten- 
ing cloud,   and  then  answered,    "It  is   from   Mr. 

Peterson." 

404 


Paul     R  Li  n  d  e  1 

"Oh!"  Ethel  avoided  her  mother's  fixed  stare. 
"I  owe  him  a  letter." 

"From  this,  I  judge  that  you  owe  him  several," 
Mrs.  Mayfield  answered  in  a  significant  tone. 
"Ethel,  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  treating  him  quite 
fairly." 

"Fairly!  Why  do  you  say  that,  mother?"  Ethel 
showed  some  little  vexation.  Touches  of  red  ap- 
peared in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Because  you  haven't  answered  his  recent  let- 
ters, for  one  thing,"  was  the  reply.  "You  know, 
daughter,  that  I  have  never  tried,  in  the  slightest, 
to  influence  you  in  this  matter,  and — " 

"This  matter!''  A  rippling  and  yet  a  somewhat 
forced  laugh  fell  from  the  girl's  curling  lips.  "You 
speak  as  if  you  were  referring  to  some  business 
transaction." 

'"You  know  what  I  mean,"  Mrs.  Mayfield  smiled 
good-naturedly.  ' '  Before  we  came  here  this  summer, 
while  Mr.  Peterson  was  so  attentive  to  you  in  At- 
lanta, I  told  you  that  he  had  plainly  given  me  to 
understand  that  he  was  in  love  with  you,  and  wished 
to  pay  his  addresses  in  the  most  serious  and  respect- 
ful way." 

' '  Well  ? ' '  Ethel  shrugged  her  shoulders.  ' '  I  have 
let  him  come  to  see  me  softener,  really,  than  any  of 
my  other  friends,  and — " 

"But  that  isn't  all  he  wants,  and  you  are  well 
aware  of  it,"  the  mother  urged.  "He  says  you 
don't  write  to  him  as  freely  and  openly  as  you  once 
did — he  has  acted  very  considerately,  I  think. 
Owing  to  your  uncle's  death  he  did  not  like  to  in- 
trude, but  now  he  can't  really  understand  you,  and 
is  naturally  disturbed." 

405 


Paul     Rundel 

"So  he  has  written  to  you?"  Ethel  said,  crisply, 
almost  resentfully. 

"Yes,  he  has  written  to  me.  I  am  not  going  to 
show  you  his  letter.  The  poor  fellow  is  deeply 
worried.  The  truth  is,  as  he  says,  that  most  of 
your  set  down  home  look  on  you — " 

"As  his  property,  I  know,"  Ethel  flashed  forth. 
"Some  men  are  apt  to  allow  a  report  like  that  to 
get  circulated.  The  last  time  he  was  here  he  dropped 
half  a  dozen  remarks  which  showed  that  he  had 
no  other  thought  than  that  I  was  quite  carried 
away  with  him." 

Mrs.  Mayfield  faced  the  speaker  with  a  gentle 
smile  of  perplexity.  "You  know,  dear,  that  I 
firmly  believe  in  love-matches,  and  if  I  didn't  think 
you  could  really  love  Mr.  Peterson  I'd  never  let 
you  think  of  marrying  him;  but  he  really  is  such  a 
safe,  honorable  man,  and  has  such  brilliant  pros- 
pects, that  I'd  not  be  a  natural  mother  if  I  were 
not  hopeful  that  you — " 

"You  mustn't  bother  with  him  and  me,  mother," 
Ethel  said,  weariedly.  "I  know  all  his  good  points, 
and  I  know  some  of  his  less  admirable  ones;  but 
I  have  some  rights  in  the  matter.  I  have  really 
never  encouraged  him  to  think  I  would  marry  him, 
and  it  is  because — well,  because  his  recent  letters  have 
been  just  a  little  too  confident  that  I  have  not 
answered.  I  can't  bear  that  sort  of  thing  from  a 
man,  and  I  want  him  to  know  it." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  wash  my  hands  of  it,"  Mrs. 
Mayfield  said,  smiling.  "I  want  you  to  be  happy. 
You  have  suffered  so  keenly  of  late  that  it  has 
broken  my  heart  to  see  it,  and  I  want  your  happi- 
ness above  all.    Then  there  is  something  else." 

406 


Paul     R  u  n  d  e 1 

"Oh,  something  else?"  Ethel  echoed. 

"Yes,  and  this  time  I  am  really  tempted  to 
scold,"  the  mother  said,  quite  seriously.  "My  dear, 
I  am  afraid  you  are  going  to  make  more  than  one 
man  unhappy,  and  this  one  certainly  deserves  a 
better  fate." 

Ethel  avoided  her  mother's  eyes.  Her  color  deep- 
ened.    Her  proud  chin  quivered. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  faltered. 

"I  mean  that  I  am  afraid  Paul  Rundel  is  in  love 
with  you,  too." 

"Paul — oh,  how  absurd!"  the  girl  answered, 
her  face  burning. 

"You  may  say  that  if  you  wish,  but  I  shall  not 
change  my  opinion,"  Mrs.  Ma3^eld  rejoined,  grave- 
ly. "I  am  sure  he  wouldn't  want  me  to  suspect  it 
— ^in  fact,  I  think  he  tries  to  hide  it  from  every  one. 
It  is  only  little  signs  he  shows  now  and  then — ■ 
the  way  he  looks  when  your  name  comes  up.  The 
truth  is  that  he  can  hardly  steady  his  voice  when 
he  mentions  you.  But  he  will  never  trouble  you 
with  his  attentions.  He  has  an  idea  that  there 
is  some  understanding  between  you  and  Mr.  Peter- 
son, and  I  confess  I  didn't  disabuse  his  mind.  In 
fact,  he  said  last  night,  when  he  and  I  were  out  here 
together,  that  he  would  never  marry.  He  has  an 
idea  that  he  ought  to  remain  single  so  that  he  may 
be  free  to  carry  out  some  plans  he  has  for  the  public 
good — plans,  I  think,  which  mean  a  sacrifice  on 
his  part,  in  some  way  or  other.  He's  simply  won- 
derful, my  child.  He  seems  to  suffer.  You  know 
a  woman  can  tell  intuitively  when  a  man  is  that 
way.  He  seems  both  happy  and  unhappy.  I  thought 
I'd   speak   to   you   of   this   so   that   you   may  be 

407 


Paul     Rundel 

careful  when  with  him.  You  can  be  nice  to  him, 
you  know,  without  leading  him  to  think — well,  to 
think  as  Mr,  Peterson  does." 

"There  is  no  danger,"  Ethel  said,  wistfully.  "I 
understand  him,  and  I  am  sure  he  understands  me, 
but" —  she  hesitated  and  caught  her  mother's  arm 
in  a  tense  clasp,  as  they  started  on  toward  the 
house — "I  am  sure,  very  sure,  mother,  that  he 
— that  Paul  is  not  really  in  love  with  me.  You 
don't  think  so,  either,  mother — you  know  you  do 
not !  You  have  so  many  silly  fancies.  You  imagine 
that  every  man  who  looks  at  me  is  in  love  with  me. 
Paul  will  never  love  any  woman,  much  less  me.  You 
see,  I  know.  I've  talked  to  him  a  good  deal  here  of  late, 
and — and  I  understand  him.     Really,  I  do,  mother." 

Alone  in  her  room,  a  moment  later,  Ethel  stood 
before  her  mirror  looking  at  her  reflection. 

"He  loves  me — oh,  he  loves  me!"  she  whispered. 
"He's  loved  me  all  these  years.  He  is  the  grandest 
and  best  man  that  ever  lived.  He  has  lifted  me 
above  the  earth,  and  made  me  understand  the 
meaning  of  life.  Oh,  Paul,  Paul!"  She  sank  down 
by  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  rain  was  be- 
ginning to  fall  heavily.  It  pattered  against  the 
window-sill  and  wet  her  sleeve  and  hair,  but  she 
did  not  move.  She  breathed  in  the  cooling  air  as 
if  it  were  a  delightful  intoxicant  borne  down  from 
heaven.  The  dripping  leaves  of  a  honeysuckle 
tapped  her  hot  cheeks.  She  thrust  her  fair  head 
farther  out,  felt  the  water  trickle  down  her  cheeks 
and  chin,  and  laughed.  Her  mood  was  ecstatic, 
transcendent,  and  full  of  gratitude  unspeakable. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ETHEL  had  been  to  her  uncle's  grave  one  after- 
noon, and  was  returning  through  the  wood  which 
lay  between  the  farmhouse  and  the  village  when  she 
met  Paul. 

"I've  just  been  up  with  some  flowers,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  it  is  so  sad!    I  had  a  good  cry." 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  made  you  feel  better,"  he 
said,  looking  at  her  tenderly.  "Nature  has  made 
us  that  way." 

"I  am  afraid  I  became  rather  despondent,"  she 
answered.  "Oh,  Paul,  I  wish  I  had  all  your  beau- 
tiful faith!  You  have  actually  reconciled  me  to 
poor  dear  Jennie's  death.  I  can  already  see  that 
it  was  best.  It  has  made  me  kinder  and  broader  in 
many  ways.  Do  you  know,  Paul,  there  are  times 
when  I  am  fully  conscious  of  her  presence — I  don't 
mean  in  the  ordinary,  spiritualistic  sense,  but  some- 
thing— I  don't  know  how  to  put  it — but  something 
like  the  highest  mental  essence  of  m}/  dear  cousin 
seems  to  fold  me  in  an  embrace  that  is  actually 
transporting.  I  find  myself  full  of  tears  and  joy  at 
tne  same  time,  and  almost  dazed  with  the  inde- 
scribable reality  of  it." 

"Many  sensitive  persons  have  that  experience  in 
sorrow,"  Paul  said,  "and  I  am  obliged  to  think 
there  is  some  psychic  fact  beneath  it.  There  is 
something  undoubtedly  uplifting  in  a  great  grief. 

27  409 


Paul    Rundel 

It  is  a  certain  cure  for  spiritual  blindness.  It  tears 
the  scales  of  matter  from  our  eyes  as  nothing  else 
can  do." 

"I  can't,  however,  keep  from  being  despondent 
over  my  poor  uncle,"  Ethel  sighed,  as  she  agreed 
with  him.  "Oh,  Paul,  he  really  wasn't  prepared. 
He  plunged  into  the  dark  void  without  the  faintest 
faith  or  hope." 

Paul  gravely  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "To 
believe  that  is  to  doubt  that  the  great  principle  of 
life  is  love.  We  cannot  conceive  of  even  an  earthly 
father's  punishing  one  of  his  children  for  being 
blind,  much  less  the  Creator  of  us  all.  Your  uncle 
through  his  whole  life  was  blind  to  the  truth.  Had 
he  seen  it,  his  awakening  would  have  been  here  in- 
stead of  there,  that  is  all." 

"Oh,  how  comforting,  how  sweetly  comforting!" 
Ethel  sobbed.  There  was  a  fallen  tree  near  the  path, 
and  she  turned  aside  and  sat  down.  She  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  while  the  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes.  "Paul,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "you  are  very 
happy,  aren't  you?  You  must  be — you  have  so 
much  to  make  you  so." 

He  looked  away  toward  the  mountain  where  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sun  lay  in  a  mellow  flood,  and 
a  grave,  almost  despondent,  expression  crept  into 
his  eyes.  He  made  no  answer.  She  repeated  her 
question  in  a  rising  tone,  full  of  tender  eagerness. 
Then  without  looking  at  her  he  answered,  slowly  and 
distinctly : 

"All  humanity  must  suffer,  Ethel.  It  is  part  of 
the  divine  order.  Suffering  is  to  the  growing  soul 
what  decayed  matter  is  to  the  roots  of  a  flower. 
Light  is  the  opposite  of  darkness;  joy  is  the  opposite 

410 


Paul     R  u  n  d  c 1 

of  suffering.  The  whole  of  life  is  made  ujj  of  such 
contrasts;  earth  is  temporary  captivity,  Paradise  is 
eternal  freedom." 

"But  you  have  already  had  your  suffering,"  Ethel 
pursued,  her  drying  eyes  fixed  hungrily  on  his  face. 
"Surely  you — you  are  not  unhappy  now.  I  don't 
see  how  you  could  be  so  when  everybody  loves  you 
so  much,  and  is  so  appreciative  of  your  goodness. 
Henry  worships  you.  He  says  you  have  made  a 
man  of  him.  Old  Mr.  Tye  declares  you  have  actu- 
ally put  an  end  to  lawlessness  in  these  mountains. 
I  can't  see  how  you,  of  all  men,  could  be  unhappy 
for  a  minute." 

"There  are  things" — he  was  still  avoiding  her 
eyes,  and  he  spoke  with  a  sort  of  tortured  candor 
as  he  sat  down  near  her  and  raised  his  knee  be- 
tween his  tense  hands — "there  are  things,  Ethel, 
which  the  very  soul  of  a  man  cries  out  for,  but 
which  he  can  never  have — which  he  dare  not  even 
hope  for,  lest  he  slip  into  utter  despondency  and 
never  recover  his  courage." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him.  He  had  never 
seen  her  look  more  beautiful,  more  resolute.  "You 
intimated — Paul,  you  hinted,  when  you  first  came 
home  from  the  West,  that  as  a  boy,  away  back 
before  your  great  trouble,  you — ^you  cared  for  me — 
you  said  you  thought  of  me  often  during  those  years. 
Oh,  Paul,  have  you  changed  in  that  respect?  i  Do  you 
no  longer — "  Her  voice  trailed  away  from  her  flut- 
tering throat,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her  blue- 
veined  hands,  she  stood  motionless,  her  breast  vis- 
ibly palpitating,  her  sharp  intakes  of  breath  audible. 

Rising,  he  drew  her  hands  down  and  gazed  pas- 
sionately into  her  eyes.     "I  have  come  to  love  you 

411 


Paul     Rundel 

so  much,  Ethel,  that  I  dare  not  even  think  of  it. 
It  takes  my  breath  away.  Every  drop  of  blood  in 
my  body  cries  out  for  you — cries,  cries  constantly. 
I  have  never  dared  to  hope,  not  for  a  moment.  I 
know  what  Mr.  Peterson  has  to  offer  you.  He  can 
give  you  everything  that  the  world  values.  I  cannot 
see  where  my  future  duty  may  call  me,  but  I  am 
sure  that  I  can't  strive  for  the  accumulation  of  a 
great  fortune.  So  even  if  I  could  win  your  love  I 
could  not  feel  that  I  had  a  right  to  it.  Many  per- 
sons think  I  am  a  fanatic,  and  if  I  am — well,  I 
ought  not  to  influence  you  to  link  your  life  to 
mine.  As  you  say,  I  have  suffered,  and  I  have 
borne  it  so  far,  but  whether  I  can  possibly  bear 
to  see  you  the — the  wife  of  another  man  remains 
to  be  proved.  I  am  afraid  that  would  drag  me 
down.  I  think  I  would  really  lose  faith  in  God — 
in  everything,  for  I  can't  help  loving  you.  You 
are  more  to  me  than  life — more  than  Heaven." 

"You  mustn't  desert  me,  Paul."  Ethel  raised  his 
hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  The  action  drew 
her  warm  face  close  to  his.  "I  want  to  go  on  with 
you  in  body  and  in  spirit  through  eternity.  I 
love  you  with  all  my  soul.  You  have  sweetened  my 
life  and  lifted  me  to  the  very  stars.  I  don't  want 
wealth  or  position.  I  want  only  you — just  as  you  are. 

He  seemed  unable  to  speak.  Tenderly  and  rev- 
erently he  drew  her  back  to  the  log.  In  silence  they 
sat,  hand  in  hand,  watching  the  shadows  of  the  dy- 
ing day  creep  across  the  wood  and  climb  the  moun- 
tainside. 

THE  END 


A     000  131  557     1 


I! 


